


Poison and Wine

by 13thDoctor



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Blood, Death, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, FBI, M/M, Modern Era, Murder, Psychological Drama, Serial Killers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: Jaded FBI special agent Percival Graves is tracking a series of brutal homicides when he discovers a young man at one of the crime scenes. Bruised and terrified, Credence Barebone has no memory of the crime he was witness to—which resulted in the deaths of his mother and sisters—and forms an attachment to his savior, Graves. After being discharged from the hospital, Credence moves in with the agent, and their bond grows stronger even as Percival’s investigation leads him to question Credence’s involvement in the increasing number of unsolved murders.





	1. The Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my own original content from tumblr: http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/154334917048/jaded-fbi-special-agent-percival-graves-is  
> Also, my tumblr has a tag for this fic with inspiration photos, text, et cetera that helped me build this. Here: http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/tagged/poison-and-wine
> 
> I plan on updating when I can, but please understand that life gets in the way and I want this to be a damn long fic. Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and enjoy!

Special Agent Percival Graves’ eyes watched the red numbers of his alarm clock run later and later with detached interest. At 3:00 AM, he considered starting his day early, but remembered his current case and groaned, preferring to stare at the time as it clicked by. At 3:59 AM, his hand darted out to press the “dismiss” button before the wailing alarm could actually sound. It took him one minute to will himself to sit up, and he did so with a chorus of cracking bones and a pounding headache to remind him just how little sleep he had gotten.

“Perfect,” he grunted to his sheets, and then hauled himself out of bed with a long stretch.

The capacious room was still dark due to the navy blue curtains draped over the windows that nearly took up the whole right wall. Deciding to be merciful to his headache, he neglected to open them and instead walked over the white carpet in darkness; he knew the room well enough to avoid bumping into any furniture.

Turning on a light was necessary when he went to his closet to locate a white tank top and basketball shorts. Switching out the sweatpants he’d worn in his attempt to sleep, he also grabbed socks and a worn pair of sneakers, donning all with efficiency. He walked to the bathroom and ran a hand through his short black hair, finishing with a look in the mirror. A handsome, haunted, sleep-deprived man stared back at him, a token of his unsolved case. So he did what any man with about an hour of solid rest would do—he went for a morning run.

Percival began with a light jog as he watched the sky awaken. Its colors were still pastel hues, soft orange and baby blue. The grass was even tinted from the November chill, its brilliant green shaded in early hours. It was his favorite time of day, this purgatory of morning. It held so much potential. Life could start or stall, fade or ignite, all in these few moments. It was also invaluable alone time for mulling over the case. His heart hammering, blood rushing, shoes slapping the pavement; it trapped his head in a constant state of analyzing with only the plethora of files he had nearly memorized to keep him company.

He sprinted all the way to Central Park before checking his watch. He’d been out for an hour, and he’d gone too far to be on time to work if he didn’t stop soon. Cursing, he took a short-cut back and ran fast enough to make him put the case in the back of his mind until he got home.

His penthouse was a welcome reprieve to the hell he’d put himself through. As he paced through it to the bathroom, the lonely white walls screamed at him for a breakthrough on the case. He gestured lamely to the yarn-laded outline he’d constructed on the living room wall in protest, started the coffee machine, and stripped on his way to the shower, tossing his sweat-soaked clothes into a hamper.

Cold water hit his body with a shock that washed away any lingering drowsiness. He pressed his palms to the wall and let it run down his back for a moment before he washed, turned it off, and dried in record time. With one towel wrapped loosely around his hips and one draped over his shoulders, he returned to the kitchen and poured now-brewed coffee into a sleek black travel mug. Then he found himself back in his room, glancing forlornly at his unmade bed on his way to the walk-in closet.

White designer-made long sleeve tee, tailored black pants, and black oxfords. The outfit was so common that his partner had started referring to it as his uniform. Holding up the unfortunate, heavy blue _thing_ that the FBI liked to call a windbreaker, he had grimaced and reminded her that they did have a uniform, and it was that ugly item. Its place was permanently in his car if he could get away with it. Or, he recalled fondly, on Tina that day she had elected to wear two after the police officer with whom they’d been working remarked that he thought an FBI team had _two_ jackets, not one. Her upper body had resembled a blue marshmallow.

His final stop on his way out was in the back of his closet where he kept his company issue sidearm and holster. These he strapped on with ease, and then he pulled on a black trench coat so as not to alarm the neighbors. Although that annoying man, Langdon Shaw—living off of his rich father’s money, Percival always thought—knew he was an agent, he made loud and unwarranted comments when a gun was visible on Percival’s hip. He suspected the heavy drinking contributed to such paranoia, and would have continued scaring the man had his boss not demanded the torment cease.

“Morning Mr. Graves,” Langdon slurred when Percival eventually exited his apartment. He sighed quietly, locked the door, and stowed his phone, badge, and the key before facing Mr. Shaw’s rather putrid breath.

“Pleasure, Shaw,” he returned cordially, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose at the disgraced son of the city’s most popular newspaper magnate. He ran a fringe theory blog and liked to pester Percival for classified information, “you know, for research.” Percival avoided every inquiry and usually escaped before Langdon could invite him to dinner and force him to awkwardly reject the offer.

He smiled. “Good day, then.” Then he was down the stairs—unwilling to wait for the elevator despite the time the journey from the top floor consumed—and safely out of reach. He plucked his car keys from his pocket and headed to the garage, where a reserved spot held his precious Lamborghini Veneno. Even in New York City, a car that could get to 60 in 2.9 seconds would get him to work with time to spare.

The sleek car sped out of the garage with the gauge pointing well above the limit, but it was one rule Percival felt comfortable breaking despite his constant and diligent adherence to the rules. One of which, he realized as his Bluetooth rang, his partner was currently trampling.

“Tina, you shouldn’t use your cell while you drive,” he complained as he raced down the street. He could picture her blushing.

“Not all of us have your fancy blue-nose-thingy,” she retorted. “And besides, Queenie’s driving me in.”

“Did something happen to your car?”

She sounded like she was shrugging. “Impounded. I left it parked too long without paying, silly me.” Percival could tell she was upset about it, but she’d always put on a strong front for her sister. It seemed pointless to him when Queenie was scarily good at reading people, but it was sweet and he admired her for it all the same.

“Mm,” he offered. “Speaking of silly, did you know that Picquery told me I can no longer abuse the interns and have them fetch me coffee in the morning? I was forced to make my own. That coffee machine is for 1 AM evidence perusals, Tina, nothing else. It’s going to go on strike if it has to produce another to-go cup.”

The sisters’ barely suppressed their giggles. “You can’t pick up your own?” Tina took a noisy sip of what he assumed was hot chocolate from her favorite local cafe.

He waved at an adjacent car as he swerved past it and the driver flipped him off. “Don’t be reasonable, it doesn’t suit you.” His mouth quirked into a small smile. “Besides, you know they adore my attention.”

“Sure, Percy,” Queenie quipped from further away. Percival imagined the triumphant smile on her face as she managed to insert his loathed nickname. He took a deep breath.

“Always a pleasure, Ms. Goldstein, though I need to speak to Tina about work now.”

Percival heard Tina whisper a quick apology and then a gentle reminder of where to turn. Finally, “I hate to say this, but we won’t have any new leads unless he kills again.”

“If he is a he,” Percival reminded her absentmindedly. She was right, of course. Four bodies, the first in New Jersey, and the most recent a disturbingly conservative senatorial candidate; Percival would never admit his complete apathy to that last murder. They had only just connected the interstate kills, and had been called in a month ago by the New York State police when the trail had run cold. Obviously, the FBI were labeled as incompetent when Henry Shaw Jr. showed up sliced to bits and wrapped in a campaign banner while the police sat back and explained how the government’s involvement was slowing down the case. Percival began to understand why people went on murder streaks.

 _No new leads._ The statement followed him home every day, to bed every night. Between the random power outages in Manhattan and a serial killer on the loose, the borough’s last two months were definitely shaping up to be some of its worst in years.

And it was his job to fix it.

“Are you still alive, or did you crash that death trap you like to call a car?”

Percival snapped out of his calculations and made a quick left, almost missing the turn that would take him to the field office. Someone honked; he drove on pleasantly. “Don’t listen to the mean lady,” he soothed while he patted the dashboard, and the Goldsteins broke into laughter once more.

As predicted, he arrived at the office ten minutes early with his coffee still warm and his outfit and hair pristine. The new interns gawked at his car and then at him, and he plastered on a scowl just to keep them moving. They scattered just as Queenie’s pastel pink Beetle puttered into the parking lot. His Lamborghini’s arrival had been met with the utmost envy; this received anything but.

“Bye-bye Teenie! Have fun!” the blonde called after her sister had clumsily extracted herself from the passenger’s seat. Tina just managed to grab her hot chocolate from the roof before Queenie was off, turning into the oncoming city traffic like it was the easiest drive in the world. An off-key song of shouts and beeps followed the little car long after it disappeared from view.

“Have _fun?_ ” he asked, and she shrugged. Percival mirrored the action, noting privately how his shoulders didn’t make that _swoosh_ sound because he wasn’t wearing a windbreaker, and they walked in together.

“Graves, Goldstein,” the secretary, Abernathy, greeted. He was a short, well-groomed man, and Percival disliked him immensely because Tina disliked him immensely. He always went to the bakery Queenie ran with her boyfriend and flirted with her. After her teary story about him refusing to take no for an answer to a date, Percival had bought her one of those pink, cat-head-shaped keychains with the knife-like ears. She wore it as a bracelet.

“Hi,” Tina answered with as much feeling as a corpse. She ushered Percival through security—“Badges up, thank you”—and to the elevator in rapid succession. He felt thoroughly windswept once the doors opened and they stepped out onto the 44nd floor. Once simply a general investigative area, its employees had been scooped out and relocated to other sections of the building so this one could be devoted entirely to the Manhattan case. Every day Percival half-expected a banner to be strung up across the wall reading _MANHATTAN MENACE._ It was what the papers had deemed their killer, and it was the name that stuck.

“Is Picquery in yet, or can I send the new kid on a coffee run?” he asked the nearest agent. She looked at him fearfully and then switched her gaze to over her shoulder, and though Percival thought it was impossible, there was even more fear in her eyes when she did so.

“I am, Agent Graves. You should follow my orders with or without my presence in this office.”

Percival turned to address his boss. She was glaring at him coldly like she glared at everyone, but also with that touch of respect she seemed to reserve for him alone. Her blonde hair stood in a sleek bun and she wore a perfectly tailored navy pantsuit and sensible heeled boots. Though had never seen it, he had no doubts that she could take someone down wearing anything between those and stilettos.

“Madame Picquery!” he greeted, because such titles never bothered her when given by him. Everyone else, however, was required to address her with the rigidly formal “Special Agent in Charge,” which Tina was currently using to bid their boss a good morning.

She pivoted on her heel and walked back toward her office. Percival and Tina exchanged a glance, hers worried and his amused, as they followed. “There are no new leads on your case, agents. We had forensics working overtime on the last body, but all they could tell us was what you’ve been saying for days; he’s using a combination of a knife and his bare hands, yet there are no fingerprints or cuts unique enough to trace a single instrument.” They arrived in her office and Percival shut the door. Picquery nodded approvingly.

“Sit,” she ordered, and they did. Percival sat perfectly straight, poised and dignified. Tina slouched, yet she was alert and attentive. The two waited patiently as Picquery slid into her chair and looked them over.

Sighing, she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the forensic report. As she handed it to Percival, she continued her seemingly endless wave of bad news. “I’m sure you’re aware of this, but the last victim was a high-profile man with a high-profile father. They’re smearing us in the papers, and the police aren’t defending us. I know you two don’t want to hear this…. You’re stumped. We all are. Unfortunately, the only way to change that is if we find some magical piece of evidence or he kills again, and I’m more faithful in the latter. I understand you two were prepared for field work today.”

Tina nodded enthusiastically. She hated sitting behind a desk all day.

Picquery frowned. “You’ll both be staying here and combing the reports for patterns related to time and area. I want us to predict where he kills next so we can be there before it happens.”

Tina opened her mouth to protest but only got as far as “Spe—” before Percival was standing, smoothing down his collar, and thanking Picquery for the assignment. Tina pouted at him while he practically pushed her out of the office. Once again, he closed the door behind him. They managed to walk ten feet before Tina rounded on him, already complaining about the day’s workload.

“A pattern _would_ be some magic piece of evidence!” she hissed. They were, after all, the lead investigation team, and whining about it to the whole floor would be wildly inappropriate. “We’re going to spend most of the day twirling red yarn around our fingers.”

Percival shrugged. He pursed his lips, already caught up in the large outline on the wall nearly identical to his own at home. Layers of maps, photographs, theories, and newspaper clippings were connected with push pins and red string. Sticky notes abounded, many of which were in his own decorative cursive or Tina’s neat print. Some were faded, others—such as every bit about Shaw—were clear and dark, just daring Percival to connect the dots.

The thing was, he couldn’t. No one could. Shaw died, there was a flurry of investigative prowess where they seemed _so close,_ and then… nothing. Cleaning each fiber of hair from the scene was about as busy as they could get in the field. Agents on this floor had hands perpetually full of coffee cups and bags under their eyes. They spoke too quietly or too loudly, too slow or too fast, weighed down or strung out.

Tina showed it in her enthusiasm. Though she protested often, she was one of the most dedicated agents. She showed the most growth, having studied day and night in the academy and landing excellent grades but average or below-average field scores. She also had a penchant for rather egregious mistakes; at one point she confused a box of baked goods and a case of contraband snake eggs. Percival had graduated a year before her and was assisting the FBI Special Forces trainer when he met her and made it his mission to have the director see the same potential he saw. She graduated top of her class and was assigned as his partner two months later.

A pen hit his nose and he started. “Hey, day-dreamer,” Tina said. Somehow they had made it to their desks—next to one another, of course—and sat. Stacks of files lined the dark wood. Agents milled about looking bored, helpless, or downright desperate.

“Yes, Tina?” he inquired with raised eyebrows.

She grinned. “Got any ideas?”

“I suppose we should ask the papers,” he supplied. They both grimaced and reached for the first manila folder of many.

Two hours later, Percival was out of coffee, Tina was attempting to play tic-tac-toe with him, and he was pretty sure she had worn holes in the floor by swiveling around so much in her wheeled chair. The sentences of the report were starting to blur together. He pinched the bridge of his nose and close his eyes for momentary reprieve, and Tina muttered, “Same,” beside him. He only opened his eyes when he heard her write something on the file.

“What’s that?” he asked, and pointed to the ink.

“I might have found something. _Might,_ ” she emphasized when his eyes shone. “Just look.”

 _Animalistic behavior?_ She had scribbled this, along with crude claw marks, into the margins. _Striking out when scared?_

“I can see anyone being afraid of Shaw,” Percival agreed. “And maybe the two priors approached him on the street, harassed him, wanted money or something. Picked the wrong guy to mug.”

Tina copied his words to a sticky note while mouthing, “Makes sense, makes sense.”

Percival ran his hands through his hair. “Yes, but what _doesn’t_ make sense with that theory is the first kill. A fragile, middle-aged woman in rural New Jersey? What could be frightening about that?”

“Maybe she was a witch?” Tina supplied half-heartedly, frustrated that her idea had burned out before it could ever really be an idea. She crumpled the sticky note and tossed it to the recycling bin. She missed. “A vampire?”

Percival chuckled softly and then patted her hand. “We’ll get this, Tina. Be patient.”

“I can’t,” she replied, tears in her brown eyes. “I hate this. We have to hope someone else _dies_ so we can catch this guy. Plus, another murder is no guarantee of a trail to follow; we’ve seen that over and over. How many more bodies are going to pile up before we take him down?” She stood and the wheeled chair teetered dangerously beside her. “I have to get some air,” she choked out, and turned promptly toward the stairway.

Percival remained seated, knowing she needed her space. Tapping the pen on another file, he pushed his brain to merge any details he had overlooked before. Everything seemed spelled out for him, but in a language no one could understand.

“Fuck,” he growled at the page, and then went to have a cigarette.

For all his healthy habits, caffeine and nicotine were his two vices. He took a drag and stared at the sky—grey blue today, like a storm was coming—with malice. He was damn good at his job, one of the best, and this case was already well on its way to besting him.

A familiar presence appeared beside him and he offered her the cigarette. Tina wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting. Bad habit, too.”

“Tell me, are those daily hot dogs of yours now made of vegetables?”

She laughed before knocking her shoulder against his. The windbreaker’s vinyl made a horrible zipping sound when it rubbed against his trench coat, so he shuddered dramatically. “I need more coffee,” he told her after a beat.

“Come back inside,” she said, jerking her head toward the glass-paneled balcony doors and the busy office beyond. “One of the interns brought you some.”

Percival raised an eyebrow as he stuffed his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. “Voluntarily?” he asked dubiously. She shrugged in a way that told him it certainly was not. “You doll,” he said with fondness, and put his arm around her thin shoulders to reenter the building.

The same intern from that morning rushed over to them immediately, holding a file in one hand and a steaming take-out cup in the other. She handed both to Percival, saluted clumsily, blushed furiously, and scampered off before he could thank her. He took a sip; plain dark roast and hot enough to burn his tongue. Perfect.

Sipping as he walked, the file was forgotten until he dropped it on his desk and could set his coffee down. Tina flipped it open from over his shoulder and peered at the contents. It was a single sheet of white paper with only a few lines of script handwritten on it. _An intern mentioned to me your animal/emotional behavior note. Look closer at the first kill because neighbors complained of fighting and shouting inside the home. Lashing out theory could work. –Picquery_

“I don’t believe it!” Tina squealed. She sobered when a few of their colleagues shot her disgruntled looks. Quieter, she continued, “Picquery not only agrees with me, but thinks I should run with my idea?”

“You did say we would need something magical to solve this case,” he teased, and he was once again assaulted with that damn pen. He was going to have to hide that when she left. “I’ll grab that folder,” he offered instead of fighting back. “Go ahead and order lunch—we’re going to be here quite a while.”

They analyzed every word and picture over sushi. Tina was unable to stomach the salmon roll after reviewing the pinkish scars on the victim’s body from the autopsy report; Percival traded her his avocado roll. The blood and gore never bothered him as much as the sheer knowledge that a human being was capable of such brutality. He’d killed before, of course—Tina had not—but it was always with swift justice and the appropriate, official mercy of his status. This killer made it more like torture.

Each victim’s face and throat were marred with black and blue. By all medical accounts, these people were first beaten severely about the face, and then choked into unconsciousness. Then the slicing commenced. Most were vertical, much like an animal’s strike, save for the palms. Once the body was sufficiently pieced, the person was left to bleed out, and did so rapidly. The authorities usually found them in two or three days. Percival would feel guilty about never getting to the body in time, but it was delusion to think of saving anyone who fell under that knife. Though he had not been on scene until the body’s removal, the pictures were evidence enough.

“Are you alright, Tina?” he asked after two hours bled into four and they had barely moved. Tina was so lost in thought that she flinched when he said her name.

She sniffed. Pushing a photo away, she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and went to pin more notes on the giant board. Percival mussed his own hair in frustration. It seemed all the whole of the Bureau could was add questions, questions which never found answers. After all the grief this ‘Manhattan Menace’ had caused them, he almost wanted to take the guy down himself.

Daylight faded fast while they worked. For such a young case, the documentation was endless. Every criminologist and psychologist wanted an opinion, a statement, or journal publication. They characterized the killer as disturbed, which Percival thought was a given. They characterized him as inexperienced, which distressed Seraphina because it only exacerbated every column’s claims of FBI incompetency and inadequacy. Yet for every scholarly article on the monster, the freak, of Manhattan, an online platform emerged praising his work or listing ideas for his next victims. The office received about ten calls a day with fake information. Some people claimed the killer’s identity, others gave false tips and relationships. There was nothing glamorous or rewarding about it until it was _over._

Percival hoped it would be over soon, for all their sakes.


	2. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating. I had probably the worst holiday season of my life and writing just didn't become a major priority. Expect updates (hopefully!) twice a month from now on. I want to see this story through until the end.  
> All comments and kudos thus far are highly appreciated!  
> I might also be idealistic about this, but if anyone ever makes any fanart or graphics, I want to see them!! Put the link in the comments! <3

Every agent stayed late that night. To be fair, every agent on this case stayed late every night, but something about it seemed to drag on for Percival. The breakthrough he expected to have with Tina never happened, causing a flurry of curses on his part and a break _down_ on hers.

Queenie had brought them dinner at seven with well-wishes and fresh, warm cookies for dessert. She wasn’t allowed to stay long because she was around sensitive, confidential information, but her presence was an obvious comfort to her sister. They spoke in hushed voices on the balcony for half an hour until Picquery had Queenie removed for having no clearance. She had shaken her head in disappointment at Tina, and just like that, the agent was back on her bad side.

Percival rubbed at his face. His eyes were dry, his hand cramped, and his brain wanted nothing more than to shut down for the night. He was at the point where every sound was amplified and his body was working against him, pushing him away from stability or coherence, and he had to push through it. With a pen clutched firmly in his hand, he scribbled another note only to scratch it out seconds later. Everything made so little sense that he might as well have been Langdon Shaw typing away conspiracy after conspiracy.

“Go home, sleep on it. We can’t do much else here,” Tina said. She patted his shoulder before sliding her purse over her arm. “Get some rest.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Percival,” she insisted. He waved her away and she exhaled loudly just to let him know how utterly annoying he was. Listening to her stomp away brought a small smile to his face, which quickly transformed into a grimace as he realized he’d just read the same sentence thrice. The letters were beginning to double, so he stared at them with disbelief, wondering how they could betray him so easily.

“Get out of this office, Mr. Graves!” Picquery called good-naturedly. Percival looked up from his current file, suddenly very aware of how alone he was. All other desks were empty, all other lights switched off until a new shift began. Only the Special Agent in Charge remained, pacing around her desk with an apple shaped stress ball and a look to kill. “You don’t have to go home…” she started.

“But I can’t stay here. Yes ma’am,” he answered automatically. Disobeying a direct order was not a line he would comfortably cross, even if he felt working into the next day would yield better results.

Perhaps he just didn’t want to sleep.

He shook his head, banishing the thought, and stood to pack some copied documents and photographs. Pacing over to the wall, he used his phone to snap pictures of the day’s new sticky notes for future contemplation. Within five minutes he had gathered what few belongings he brought to work—car keys, apartment keys, wallet, badge, gun—and made his way to the elevator. Its tinny, cheery instrumental music followed him all the way home.

Checking his watch as he ascended the stairs, he wasn’t even shocked to find the hands pointing to 2:13 AM. Sleep seemed obsolete at that point, so he unlocked his door, threw the files on a cabinet under an intricate key ring, and headed to the kitchen. The coffee machine gladly made him a cup for 2 AM musings, and he took the steaming mug to the polished black kitchen table, transferring the files with it. His trench coat he hung in the coat closet, his shoes he sat near the door. The gun was relocated to a locked drawer in the living room. He stripped, and then folded all of his clothes to sit them on the steps and take them up when he eventually went to his room. This felt unlikely, so he put back on his shirt and briefs to reserve some level of propriety. After all, his entire living room wall was one giant glass pane.

Percival laid on a white couch amongst black and red pillows. The coffee sat on the wood floor within reach, and he sipped at it often enough to warrant a refill thirty minutes later. He read until the words merged into shadowy lines of nothingness, until his eyelids felt like lead and his throat was as dry as sandpaper. All memories of the case became smoke until he was grasping at them and pulling away, suffocated. Solving this case was going to kill him, he reasoned as he fought off a yawn.

Laughing at his melodramatics, he rolled to his side and swung his long legs over the couch so that his feet rested flat on the floor. The hardwood was cold; Queenie had stained his last carpet with wine when he hosted a dinner and he had yet to replace it. But he had no one to impress with another three thousand dollar Dolma, and the cold at least kept him awake.

He checked his watch. 3:43 AM. Finally moving upstairs, he grabbed the previous day’s clothes and placed them in the hamper in his room. He made his bed, folding and tucking each corner with military precision handed down by his veteran father. Satisfied, he took care to make sure the rest of his room was in order, grumbling at stray coffee mugs; often he left them in the places he accidentally fell asleep and abandoned them until he came close to running out and actually searched the penthouse. Then he changed into running clothes.

And he ran.

This run was shorter but faster than yesterday morning’s, propelled by the need for a lead on the case and his own anxieties about catching the guy before another kill. Every smack of his sneaker against concrete helped him regain his focus. His muscles quivered in absolute protest, so he pushed himself harder, and only stopped to go home and shower for the office.

His outfit was an optimistic plea for field work instead of a desk day. While he appreciated the fine details of finding patterns and profiling, he and Tina were best suited for investigating. Chasing, fighting, anything outside of a damn office room was preferable. So he wore jeans and a grey Henley that fit snugly over his chest muscles in lieu of one of his memorable black and white suits, hoping Picquery would take the hint.

With no more time to spare, breakfast was forgotten. He made a mental note to call Tina and ask her to pick something up on her way in while he waited for the elevator. When it opened, his blissful morning became a terrible burden.

“Mistah Graves! I was just on my way up with my mail, but if ya don’t mind, I’ll ride down with ya again. I got a few questions about the Manhattan Menace.” Langdon glanced nervously at Percival’s uncovered firearm, but stood his ground.

Percival stepped into the elevator and did not even attempt to put a more civil expression on his face. A patient man, he did manage to not speak first, and he also managed not to punch Langdon in the face at the first question.

“Any new leads?” he asked, his breath noisy and tainted with cheap liquor.

“Mr. Shaw, my work with the Bureau is entirely confidential, and even if it were not, my job as an agent permits me from spreading information to a _fringe journalist_ —”

“What if it were completely off the record? Cross my heart, nothing on the blog.” He gave Percival a smarmy smile that he assumed was meant to be charming. “Lemme take ya out to dinner.”

Percival could have laughed. He was lonely, absolutely, but not desperate or deranged enough to accept _that_ invitation. “No thank you, Mr. Shaw,” he answered coldly. The elevator shuddered to a stop and he made an impressively apathetic exit. He did not look back to see Langdon’s face, but he imagined it to be quite the ridiculous sight. He smirked.

The Lamborghini purred to life and he took off in an instant. However, the city traffic had other ideas, ideas that left him sitting through the same light’s rotation at least four times. Percival practically punched Tina’s number into his phone as he called her and connected the Bluetooth. Thankfully, she answered on the first ring.

“Where _are_ you?” she murmured. “Picquery is livid.”

In answer, he held his earpiece out the window so it could pick up the myriad horns and typically New York insults hurled by all the late drivers.

“Ah,” she said.

“I left on time.”

“I know, I—” All sound ceased for a moment that left Percival’s heart in his chest. Then, “Percival, they’ve found another body. Bod _ies._ ” His heart jumped to his throat and he instinctively gripped the gun at his side.

“Where?” he asked breathlessly, eyes gleaming with the adrenaline rush.

“No, you won’t be able to make it. Text me your location and I’ll send a squad car for you.”

“Tina!”

“I, I have to go. I’m sorry, text me, I have to go—” The call ended abruptly.

“Fuck!” he shouted, and revved his engine. The behavior was met with no sympathy from those around him. Irritated, he turned off the car, shoved his phone in his pocket, secured his gun and badge, and kicked open the driver’s side door. While he texted Tina, he locked the Lamborghini and left it sitting in the middle of the road. “Don’t touch the fucking car!” he snarled at a red-faced cab driver about to throw a cigarette on it. The guy jumped and withdrew his hand.

Percival weaved through the stationary cars like a snake until he stood fuming and ready to strike on the sidewalk. A minute later, a police cruiser came tearing down the street, its siren wailing for people to move. They did, complaining all the while. He sprinted toward the car and shoved passerby out of the way as it came closer. It didn’t even make a full stop; as it slowed down, he grabbed the door handle and jumped in, yelling, “Drive!” to the cop. The cop gunned it.

“Fill me in,” Percival ordered as they drove. “Officer…?”

“Galbraith. Sir, I don’t have much to tell you; they’ll have more information for you at the scene.”

His patience was wearing thin. “Which is where?”       

“Quiet little family owned church, sir. We got the call from neighbor who noticed all the kids outside.”

“Kids?”

“Yes, sir. Woman who owns the church, one Mary-Lou Barebone, holds a soup kitchen every morning for orphans and homeless kids. The neighbor called when they had been standing there for a couple hours. I have nothing else, though, sir. Picquery snatched it up and roped it off real quick.”

“Thank you, Officer.” He looked out the window. Houses came which he barely passed blurred in and out of his view, the streets dark and the people lying motionless on the ground. “Are we close?”

“Yessir. Right up here.” Galbraith cut the siren and parked with smooth efficiency. Percival leapt out of the vehicle, patted its hood in gratitude, and then ran to the church entrance.

It was an unassuming building. Nestled between brick walls and an empty parking lot, its cross barely reached the tenth story window of the adjacent apartment building. A sign out front read _Barebone Family Catholic Church._ A bloody handprint with an evidence number covered most of the word “family.” Percival found himself staring at it longer than necessary, wondering how no one had found that handprint before now.

He shook his head and walked over ten feet of uneven cobblestone to the little black door. It was wide open, the backs of agents and the FBI’s forensic team visible inside. Camera flashes and hushed voices filled the tiny space. It was like a funeral that had invited the paparazzi to attend. Picquery stood in the center of it all, hands in her pockets and a scowl on her face.

When he went to her side, she spoke from the corner of her mouth. “We didn’t catch him,” she said. Her voice was loathsome, her eyes dark as she followed her agents’ movements.

“We will,” he asserted. His confidence was solid, grounding him.

She nodded minutely. “Tina’s gone over the whole place, but do it again with her; two is always better than one, and she misses things too much. Most of the bodies are upstairs.”

“And the others?”

Picquery pointed a pink lacquer nail at a bag lying several feet away. He followed its path backwards and saw the upstairs’ hallway’s railing broken. “Mm,” he provided, and then left her.

He searched for Tina, analyzing his surroundings as he called her name. Most of the building was wide open space with a few long tables that he presumed were for soup pots. The only windows were small and high up on the grey walls, filtering in dusty yellow light. A long wooden staircase stood against the wall and led up to a second, narrower floor where the family’s rooms were. He ascended and found Tina in the hall, gloves on and eyes wet. She stood frozen in the entrance to a room with a crocheted cursive sign reading _Modesty_ pinned to the door. Little pink sheep danced around the letters. Bile rising in his throat, he gently moved his partner aside and stepped in.

It took him awhile to distinguish any single object from the destruction. When he did, he withdrew a notebook from his pocket and began writing. A dresser with a hairbrush and bible and mirror, which was cracked. A child’s bed, shorter that his entire body, and a second, twin-sized. Some of the covers on the bed were slashed and in disarray; the victim had likely been dragged from the bed. Bloodstains trailed from underneath the larger bed to a body lying on the floor, and he swallowed hard to remain stoic. An eight year old girl—pale, frail—lay in a faded circle of scarlet, slash marks covering her entire frame. Her nightgown was torn to pieces and her face was caked in dried blood. She couldn’t have been older than eight. Eyes wide, he turned away once he’d written all he needed to, finding the sight horrific. “There were three?” he rasped, steering Tina away from the gore. She pointed listlessly down the hall to another body bag. Her finger shook.

“The sister and mother,” she explained. “The sister’s body was in the hallway, but she sleeps in here. The mother, uh, she was thrown over the balcony, so you must have seen her when you came in. Neck snapped. Which is new.” Her voice wavered and she closed her eyes to compose herself. “They finished the outlines and labeling for them, so they’re being packed up and sent to the lab for autopsies. Mo…Modesty is last.”

Percival grabbed his partner’s shoulders from the side and felt her take a deep, ragged breath. She pulled away after a moment looking far more collected and determined. “I’ll get this guy if it’s the last case I ever work,” she swore. Percival nodded and moved on, feeling rather weightless.

The other rooms weren’t much different; Mary Lou’s and the bathroom were untouched. Changes to the top floor consisted of the broken balcony where she had been pushed off and the various bloodstains associated with the manner of death. Most of the usual signs of struggle in the Menace’s scenes were absent as if he caught them completely unaware. Percival wondered how a man could achieve anything surreptitiously, especially a triple homicide, in such a quiet, open space.

“Are we sure this is our guy?” Picquery called from below. He went to the balcony edge and leaned over to see her. “Could it be a copycat?”

He frowned while he considered it, but it didn’t feel plausible. “I doubt it. These wound patterns are too sporadic, and someone would have to painstakingly replicate that kind of in-the-moment frenzy, which would look fake. Also, a copycat may not have been able to hide these bodies for days like he can. This is him.”

Picquery seemed disappointed but unsurprised by his answer. “Are you done up there?”

Percival looked for Tina and saw her still staring at Modesty’s tiny body, now zipped up and in a line with the sister. “Yeah,” he told Picquery distractedly, and went to support his partner once more. He put his hands on her shoulders and she leaned back into him, inhaling sharply.

“These are kids,” she said.

“I know. The best we can do right now if we want to give this family justice, give them _all_ justice, is to do our jobs. I need you back one hundred percent. Hey, I need you.” She had been shaking her head, overcome, but stopped at when his tone harshened. “For fuck’s sake, Tina, this is what you trained for. Show Picquery you can handle it.”

“…Yeah.” She squared her shoulders and withdrew from his embrace. “This case is just… under my skin. I know I’m better than this. Than him.”

“Good.”

They descended the stairs side by side, discussing the similarities and differences of the various scenes they’d now inspected. This one, Tina observed, felt more comfortable, like he was emerging from his shell. Like he was learning. Percival had to agree. The pair made their rounds in the tiny church, taking pictures with their phones and jotting down observations on notepads. Once again, no murder weapon nor fingerprints could be found. They ran the place floor to ceiling, even peeling up crooked or broken floorboards, yet no clue came. He heard agents around the house complaining that even if the whole building was demolished, not even a hair would emerge, and Percival felt inclined to agree. This killer was too good at hiding.

“How can he be _this_ careful? They always mess up,” Tina fumed. She ripped off her gloves and stalked away to find a trash bag, still muttering about the killer’s cleanliness.

Amid all the footsteps, camera flashes, and general murmur of the team, an unfamiliar voice sounded. Percival’s head snapped up so fast his neck torqued, and he held onto the sore spot as he searched every face. He knew everyone’s voice, even the newest interns. And this had been a yelp, like a cry that was held back for so long that it finally burst free. It was high-pitched and colored with unadulterated terror.

“Did anyone else hear that?” he queried patiently. Nearby agents shrugged and moved on, some shaking their heads in silent dissent. Others froze, barely daring to breathe, as they recognized the look on his face. He stood.

“Be quiet!” he roared. “I need _complete silence_! _Now!_ ”

The agents around him scattered as he stepped forward. No one dared contradict him, not even Picquery—leaning against the doorway, arms crossed—or Tina, who arrived by his side in an instant. Percival parted the crowd with ease, listening. He withdrew his gun and held it at the ready; it felt heavier than usual.

Something crashed in the distance and he cursed in a stream of expletives that had Picquery’s eyebrows shooting up her forehead. The agent responsible, a forensic technician, glanced at his dropped kit, then at Percival, then back to the kit. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Percival very much could. He started toward the man with a deep breath and a half a mind to punch him when he heard a faint thud. That time, more heads in the room swiveled to find the source. He abandoned the technician with a quick warning.

“ _Move,_ ” he commanded, and everyone did.

The sound had come from near the stairs. He approached cautiously, every footstep light as he could manage. A nearly tangible quiet filled the room as its occupants held their breath. Listening now, his ears picked nothing but the strange buzzing that always accompanied silences. He wanted to curse, strike a hole in the wall, but he inhaled deeply and walked forward.

Now in front of the staircase, he considered going up before moving to the right. The structure was supported by a normal triangle of wood paneling that likely covered a concrete foundation. Percival focused on the dark lines of each piece, how they fit in almost perfect alignment. _There,_ he thought, and reached out to touch a nearly unnoticeable flaw. Several panels did not run all the way to the top of the wall; they stopped mid-way through in the outline of a square. He felt along the edges until he found a raised portion and pulled. When the hidden door swung open, he felt his heart skip several beats, because he was suddenly staring into bloodshot brown eyes. The boy scrambled up and shoved past Percival, knocking him to the ground before the agent could shake the surprise, and then promptly collapsed onto the church floor. Percival holstered his pistol and leapt to his feet.

The room exploded into commotion. Tina gasped when the boy’s thin body hit the floor. Picquery shouted for someone to call an ambulance while Percival rushed over. “Give him some space!” he demanded. A circle formed around the pair. Percival reached his hand out to check for a pulse, almost surprised when the action didn’t break that boney wrist. Bloodied cuts contrasted starkly to his pale skin. He wore a white collared shirt and white pants, but with the bloodstains covering the pure cloth he looked more like a devil masquerading as an angel.

“He’s alive,” he murmured. “Barely.” He pulled his limp figure into his lap and stroked messy black hair out of his face. There was something eerily beautiful about his sharp cheekbones and full lips, something still angelic despite the shock of dark hair and blood splatters.

“There was another bed in the mother’s room,” Tina piped in from his left. Percival forced himself to look at her. “I thought it was for if one of the girls got lonely, but it could have been his. I’ll look in the family records for a son.”

“He’s definitely older than eighteen. Don’t you think a son would have moved out?” another agent asked.

“Not necessarily,” Percival replied tersely. He wasn’t willing to think yet that—

“He could be the perp,” the same agent—Percival likened him to a mosquito—interjected. “Why treat him like a victim without proper cause?”

“Did you see his hands?” Percival snarled. He held one up and Picquery stepped forward to examine them. Each was slashed with the Menace’s characteristic knife-work, which had left his hands in near ribbons; they would take months to heal properly. Rivulets of dry blood twisted down the victim’s arm and there were a couple of handprints over his mouth like he’d been trying to hold back his breath or a scream. He looked like a bird struck down and saved for later, but by the look of his ashen skin, he wasn’t going to last much longer. “The shock alone would have sent him to an emergency room, but this blood loss is tremendous.” He looked around wildly. “Where the fuck is that ambulance?”

Picquery stood back and crossed her arms, considering him. Her voice was unwavering and cold when she spoke to illustrate the finality of her decision. “I want two agents posted outside his room at all times, and I want him handcuffed to the bed as soon as soon as the doctors clear it but _before_ he is conscious. Those two agents will follow the ambulance when it leaves.” Emergency vehicle sirens shrieked from down the street and grew louder as they came to a stop outside the church. “Excellent. Special Agent Graves, the EMTs can take him from here. Smith, Natters; I want you in that hospital, so go now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the partners murmured, and departed with haste. Percival only heard their footsteps; he was absorbed in the way the body in his lap seemed so ready to fall to pieces, as if he was dangling off a cliff with only a thread tethering him to the earth.

He made the decision before he could regret it. “Someone will need to be with him to question him when he wakes,” Percival said casually, but with enough of an edge that Picquery pursed her lips. He tucked the fragile body further into his arms and then lifted, causing a cacophony of murmurs and gasps for his disobedience. Tina, finally back with an envelope, stopped so abruptly that the files scattered about the floor. She stared at Percival like she was seeing him for the first time and he stared right back, daring her to contradict his choice. Then he turned toward the door to carry the boy across the threshold; the agents blocking his path retreated wordlessly. Walking out into the cold, he hugged his shaking body closer, hoping to preserve what heat he had left. EMTs rushed to him and tried to relieve Percival of his burden, but he set his jaw, shook his head, and carried him into the ambulance to lay him on the stretcher.

As soon as he was down, he sat back and allowed the EMTs to work. They set an IV and placed an oxygen mask while Percival looked back to the church doorway. Tina, Picquery, and other high-ranking agents gazed at him with an amalgamation of emotions. He met his boss’ cool rage—a rage not without a glint of respect and pride—with a similar challenge and was bolstered by Tina’s unwavering loyalty. She gave him a subtle thumbs up and then vanished as the emergency team slammed closed the ambulance doors and sped off toward the Metropolitan Hospital. Heart beating frantically, he stared at metal in the spot where his partner had been and tried to breathe again.

Percival jumped when long fingers brushed against his wrist. He instinctively grabbed the hand in reassurance and then looked down; the victim had just barely regained consciousness, his lashes fluttering and chest heaving in an attempt to find air. Percival nearly pushed the EMT over as he moved closer. The woman looked to him for an apology but found herself wanting.

“I’m Special Agent Graves with the FBI. Do you remember what happened to you?”

He shook his head wearily, eyes unfocused.

Percival ran his hands through his hair as he quelled his frustration. “What’s your name?” he asked gently. He laid his hand in unkempt black hair and stroked through it, feeling for any bumps that could explain memory loss. A small lump was present, and he pointed this out to the EMT tacitly before squeezing the boy’s hand to remind him to answer.

He gasped. “Credence,” he said on a breath. “Am I… am I dead?”

Percival ran his hand through Credence’s hair again, pretending that it was still to check for a wound. “You’re alive, but you wouldn’t have been for much longer if we hadn’t found you. We’re taking you to the hospital. I need you to answer some more questions for me there, okay?”

Credence nodded. Talking was obviously exhausting him more, so Percival simply squeezed his hand and sat back with a long exhale. The EMTs wrote down the changes in Credence’s vitals constantly, threw blankets over him, pressed on his bones to check for breaks. He floated in and out of consciousness, but never released Graves’ hand. Graves’ attention switched between watching him and texting Tina, whose last message had come over ten minutes ago and was an ominous _Picquery isn’t taking my mistake well._ Percival murmured, “Tina…” at the phone and then pocketed it.

Percival had never ridden in an ambulance before, but he knew when to stay out of the way. They braked in front of Metro General and everything erupted into controlled chaos. He was told to hop out first and he did so gracefully; he was then suddenly flanked by two ER nurses who leapt onto the stretcher once it had been set on the ground. Everyone was running, and he was left to catch up. His phone started to ring, so he picked up without reading the caller ID as he sprinted. The parade of medical workers exploded into the oddly quiet ER, sending all employees into their emergency routine as they screamed for medications and consults and tests. Lying motionless on his stretcher, Credence Barebone was fading fast.


	3. The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly grateful for all of my readers! Since the delay between the first two chapters was so great, here's a short delay between two and three. I publish it with all my love and thanks.

“Percival!” Tina shrieked when he held his phone to his ear. He instantly held it away until she finished what he assumed was a tirade about his “shocking, just shocking” behavior; her words not even registering enough to distract him from Credence. He had awoken once more and was feebly casting his head around, straining it to find Percival. Percival shouldered his phone—still spewing Tina’s flabbergasted rant—and ran to his side. A nearby nurse raised her eyebrows when he interrupted her work and he gave her a less-than-kind look in return.

“I’m here,” he soothed. He hung up on Tina without warning and pocketed the phone.

“I thought you’d gone,” Credence said listlessly, like someone accustomed to people leaving. His eyes were older and more wretched than his age—twenty, half Percival’s own age, if Tina’s investigating was correct—suggested.

Percival pressed his hand over Credence’s in answer. “I can’t go into the operating room with you, but I will be in your room when you wake up, okay?” He waited for Credence to mouth a shaky ‘yes’ before he moved swiftly away. Then the stretcher and accompanying medical team went racing down the hall toward the OR and all he could do was stare after them, fighting back tears that he insisted were from sheer exhaustion and frustration.

He could not sit still. An hour flew by, perhaps two, before a doctor came to inform him of the surgery’s progress. In his spare time Percival had paced every inch of the waiting room and cafeteria. He was running on adrenaline and coffee alone. Whenever he saw a man or a woman in a white coat, he looked at them for answers, and he had felt unhinged rage every time news was delivered to others but not him.

And then, finally, the news was for him.

“Mr. Graves?” a tired-looking woman inquired. “My name is Doctor Stone.” She was taller than Percival and had her lips set in a stern line, used to handling unruly families and unstable loved ones. As he was neither, Percival took a deep, centering breath before speaking to her. His reputation was already tarnished at the Manhattan field office; he would be damned if he became the talk of the Metro General Hospital, as well.

“Special Agent,” he amended her discreetly. “Your patient is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

The weariness vanished from her eyes. “Would you like to speak someplace more private?” she suggested. He nodded and they retreated to the closest stairwell entrance while he showed her his badge. Satisfied, she began her update. “He’s stable for now, but we had to transfuse a lot of blood. I’m sure you’re aware of this, but he has not eaten for at least two days and shows signs of malnutrition besides that.” Percival was nodding until the last part, where he stopped and made a small noise of confusion.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Stone said. She mentally backtracked, pulling the words together to explain to Graves what he’d managed to miss. “Credence is almost a textbook case of child abuse. Currently, if he is the victim in your case, it’s difficult to separate what may have been done by your perp and what was done by the parent, but there are absolutely bruises older than two days, which is the time period I’ve put together that he’d been isolated before the bureau found him.”

“You should have worked for us, Doctor Stone,” Percival complimented, because he needed to stall her to process and analyze the overflow of new information.

She smiled, nodded graciously, and continued. “The cuts on his hands are fresh, absolutely. But there are scars underneath are made from a belt, and those are older. Numerous, but older.”

“Does all of the blood belong to him?”

“Unfortunately, yes. No samples or new leads for you, Agent Graves. Ah, I’m sorry, where was I…?”

“Belt,” he supplied, mind still churning over these details. The hand wounds could not be coincidence, could they?

“Of course.” She rubbed her forehead with her elbow. “Those belt scars are also on his back, but it seems the hands were favored in terms of punishment. The broken ribs are fresh—I might add here that there are no medical records for Credence, which means his abuser would have taken precaution to make every injury treatable at home.”

“That helps, yes. Please continue.”

Her pager vibrated violently on her hip. She held up a finger to request a break to check it, and then looked up with renewed purpose. “I have to rejoin my team in the OR, Agent, but you will be fully updated when Credence is out of surgery.”

“Is something wrong?” Percival asked, hating how desperate his voice sounded. He wondered how he seemed to this woman, with the dark circles under his eyes and blood on his shirt, his rapid obsession with a stranger and possible killer. He would avoid that man on the streets if he saw him. He sighed.

She answered kindly, “No; we’re closing soon and I want to supervise my students. I’ll send a nurse to show you to his room once we move him.” She touched his shoulder like all doctors did to calm outsiders, and he fought against the indignation that pooled in him for lumping him in with the mundane civilians. “You should eat something; sleep,” she prompted. “It will be at least two more hours until you can see him.”

Percival blinked. He had no idea if Picquery would allow him to stay; riding in the ambulance was already pushing his luck, and no doubt Agents Smith and Natters were lurking outside, ready to cuff Credence Barebone to a chair and interrogate him into submission. “Alright,” he answered distractedly as Dr. Stone left him. Despite agreeing, however, he only went back to the cafeteria to order another coffee.

Walking outside, he breathed in the cold air. The sounds of the city raged by, oblivious to his plight, and he was comforted by that single consistency. After a few minutes of letting himself simply _breathe_ —a rare respite he allowed himself, and one he only ever allowed when he was alone—he checked his phone; five missed calls and twelve unread text messages from Tina glowed accusingly on his home screen.

 _I can’t believe u hung up on me!!_ read the first. Percival was always appalled and amused by Tina’s love of text lingo. _Asshole,_ read the second, and he chuckled. The next few were essentially repeats of the first two, but the most recent sent him sprinting back inside with fire in his veins.

_Smith and Natters got there first. Just heard Pic on phone w them- in ICU w Barebone & trying 2 talk 2 him b4 u do._

“Sir?” a nurse said in alarm as he dashed past her. Careful not to run into anyone, he followed the signs to the ICU and almost slammed his body into the doors before he recalled that they were automatic. He cleared his throat, backing up. Visiting families cast him pitying looks as he entered the area, likely thinking he had been called for bad news. They were wrong; seeing Smith and Natters and the scene before him in room 213, Percival thought, was probably the _worst_ news he could have received this afternoon.

Credence, dressed in a clean hospital gown, was attached to an IV drip and all the proper machines, an intubation tube protruding from his swollen lips. Bandages covered most of his body. They wrapped around his frail chest and arms, all the way to his bony wrists, where handcuffs were tightly locked and attached to the metal bed frame. Without hesitation, Percival rounded on the closest agent—Natters, with his dirty blonde hair and bushy mustache—and grabbed his collar to push him against the wall. Natters yelped and Smith shouted and the nurse who had been checking Credence’s vitals hurried away.

Calmly, but disdain dripping from his voice like poisoned honey, Percival asked, “What the fuck are you doing, Natters?”

“You don’t frighten me, Graves,” Natters spat in his heavy Brooklyn accent. His breath smelled of cheap eggs, and Percival wanted to strangle him. “Picquery gave us this assignment and she said to keep this kid cuffed, so we’re gonna do just that. You want to disobey direct orders?”

“I disagree with Picquery on this and she respects my call, so you can fuck off,” Percival said slowly.

“Oh no, Mommy and Daddy are at it again,” Smith quipped from a safe distance away. He waved at Percival when he turned to glare at him. Natters took the time to remove himself from Percival’s grip and scamper over to his partner. Together, they thought they could put up a stronger, united front against Graves. The idea almost made him laugh, but he was running on too little sleep and too much aggravation to be entertained.

Natters curved his lip and tilted his chin, challenging. “Fighting us on this means fighting _her_ on this, and you’re in deep shit as it is. You can’t be the _Madame’s_ favorite when you go around acting like you’ve got a better idea on how to do her job.”

“Especially with your partner’s major fuck-up,” Smith added, mocking yet unsure. He looked past Graves to the open door and busy hallway. “Oh, look, I see your special privileges leaving. Look at them go.”

Graves rounded on Smith and the man looked as if he’d be sick. Graves felt a gruesome sort of satisfaction at the pale face and quivering lips; he wasn’t worth much as an agent if he couldn’t inspire fear into these jackasses. Reassured by his superiority, he turned away without a single word and sat at the chair next to Credence’s bed. “This case is _mine,_ ” he reminded them coolly. “My jurisdiction, my investigation, and my call. Picquery can gripe all she wants about it, but she gave me full authority and _I_ _will have my way._ Is that understood?”

He did not look at them. His eyes were already scanning Credence, wishing away that ashen skin and all the bruises that made him look even paler. Percival did not have time to bother with Smith and Natters anymore, and he wanted them to know. By the sound of their fading footsteps—Natters was muttering something uncouth about Graves’ proclivities and Smith was shushing him nervously—it seemed as if he’d won, at least for now.

Percival sighed and ran his hands through his hair, still battling sleep. All his energy had been sapped away as soon as he entered the room. He felt empty as if the massive blood loss had been his own rather than Credence’s, and didn’t know whether to fill that emptiness with more coffee, another run, or some much-needed sleep. He doubted sleep would come when he was haunted by those eyes, though; eyes that held sorrows far too great for someone so young.

So he waited. He got another coffee despite his brain’s best reasoning against it and watched Credence with a tight, uneasy feeling in his chest. Nothing about the boy seemed threatening or capable of multiple brutal homicides, particularly of his own family. He rubbed his eyes. The mother, maybe, if Credence had snapped. But he wouldn’t take his sisters with him, and there was no just cause for the other victims such as the woman in New Jersey.

“Fuck,” he muttered. His head hurt and his legs felt stiff, unused. The caffeine gave him enough of a buzz to walk laps around the room, throwing the case around in his head. He sidestepped nurses and doctors as they visited periodically through the night, checking Credence’s machines, changing his IV bag. Percival’s pacing and the machines’ incessant whirring were the only sounds in the otherwise still and silent room. With the door closed, the rapid bustle of the night shift and janitors was absent, and Percival was not one to talk to someone unconscious, no matter how emotionally attached he was rapidly becoming.

Which, if anyone asked, he was not.

His phone buzzed and he started, having forgotten it was even on him. He shifted around in the seat until he could reach into his bloodied jeans pocket and check it. _Do u need a change of clothes?_ Tina had sent. He felt the answer was rather obvious, but sent a _Yes please_ in response anyway. There was a twinge of guilt when he thought about how he had left Tina behind to incur Picquery’s wrath. She was a good agent and partner, and a friend even, if he was being sentimental. He tended to be when he was this far behind on sleep. He would apologize when she got here with clothes and—

 _Do you have any good coffee_?

 _U have a problem_ was her only answer. He smiled. She would bring a cup anyway.

Tina Goldstein arrived at the Metro General Hospital at exactly 3:04 AM with one large cup of black coffee, one medium caffeinated lady grey tea, a bag of men’s clothes, and all the files she could find on the Barebone family. She also had statements from neighbors, new photographs of the crime scene, and a head full of theories. Sharing those would be easier than sharing the essentially nonexistent information about Credence; the whole family was made up of ghosts, as incredibly religious households tended to be. They commonly held too much distrust in the government and modern medicine. She frowned.

She wore that very same frown when she knocked politely on room 213’s glass door and Percival looked up to meet her eyes. He looked guilty, which was good, and gaunt, which was not. Tina had always hated the way he ran himself out so easily and so enthusiastically, but he never listened to her about it, so she was always there to witness the inevitable crash and burn.

Phoenixes always rose from the ashes, though. She’d only ever seen him soar.

“Coffee,” she announced disapprovingly when she reached him. He was sitting in the most uncomfortable looking chair that was doing its damndest to look inviting with its gaudy floral cushions and padded arms. She was surprised he had sat down in the thing with his oh-so-special _designer_ jeans, even if they were ruined. The man had principles, after all.

“Thank you,” he said. He touched her arm and sighed. “For everything, Tina, and I mean it. I am so sorry that I tossed you to the wolf.”

Tina shrugged. “I’m easy to toss,” she reasoned, “because I’m also easy to forgive.”

“You have a good heart, Tina Goldstein.”

“And you do not, Percival Graves.”

They laughed—his a little hollow but hidden well—as he pretended to swat her away. When she retreated, sipping noisily at her tea, he noticed she was wearing her pajamas and commented on how utterly unprofessional she had turned out to be. “I raised you better than this,” he teased. She chuckled while hung his suit bag on a wall hook and then handed him a purple canvas bag that read NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY on both sides. “Red Converse?” he exclaimed, drawing the shoes from it. “Tina, what in God’s name—”

“Oops!” She swiped them back with gusto. “Not yours.” Another bag, this one patterned with the Union flag, dropped into his lap.

“Your boyfriend from across the pond?” he asked with a posh British accent. She turned bright red, almost the exact shade of the Converse, and huffed.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Uh-huh. And I am a model heterosexual,” he countered. Tina stuck out her tongue, which meant he’d won. He smiled, triumphant, as he picked through the clothes she’d brought him. “These are mine,” he observed aloud. “Did you break into my penthouse?”

“ _Much_ to the curiosity and delight of one Mr. Shaw Langdon,” she replied gleefully. He stared and she rolled her eyes. “No, silly. You gave me a key forever ago.”

“Yes, I remember now.” But that was a lie; he’d forgotten he made copies since he really had no one to give them to. Single child, dead parents, no pets or children in need while he was at work. He didn’t even have a spare for himself since he was painstakingly careful never to lose any of his belongings.

“You _definitely_ need sleep if you’re forgetting that kind of stuff.”

He grunted. “I know. But I want to be here when he…” Percival trailed off as he looked at Credence. He didn’t even look peaceful in his sleep. Instead, his face was drawn and his mouth whimpered incoherent pleas as he trudged through nightmares, brows knitted and dark bruises stark against the whiteness of his skin. His own hair even seemed unnaturally black as it fell, damp, against his high cheekbones, unruly and cut awkwardly out of necessity rather than style.

“You will still be here if you’re asleep here,” she argued softly.

“No, I want to be _here_ for him. He looks like he’s never had anyone by his side all his life. I want to be that person, if only while we solve this.”

“Feeling paternal?” Tina asked with a small smile.

Percival recoiled, not sure why the thought, specifically associated with Credence, filled him with so much disgust. He tucked that revulsion away before he spoke, always careful to keep his anger in check when speaking to his best and only friend. “Not paternal, no,” he said with a cough.

She nodded. “Just… attached,” she revised. “You found him, obviously you feel like he needs protecting.” Percival side-eyed her and she rolled her eyes at him again. “I mean, he _does_ need protecting, whether or not that’s how you _feel_.”

“Continue,” he said, smirking.

“So you’ve made yourself responsible for him, and _not_ in a parent way, as we’ve established. And he’s going to be attached to you when he wakes up.”

“Will he?” Percival knew it was likely from what the textbooks told him, but he had never put himself in a situation that established any sort of intimacy between himself and a victim. Attachments were a liability in his line of work. Regardless of Tina’s constant claim that they weren’t, he thought her choice of a long-distance relationship with British boy was rather telling.

“You _saved_ him. You took him out of that cupboard-under-the-stairs and your eyes were the first he saw that cared even an ounce for him, _and_ you went with him to this hospital where all these strangers poked and prodded him, but you were there to be Mr. Prince Charming and hold his hand. Am I warm?”

“I did not hold his hand,” he lied easily.

“Right, professionalism,” she said, sounding unconvinced. A comfortable pause followed before she pointed to his clothes pile. “Change,” she ordered. “You look disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

“I try,” she swung back effortlessly. Percival was most proud of the way he had trained Tina to verbally spar with him; life would be so boring with anyone else. “And shower!” she added loudly right as he shut the bathroom door.

The room was cramped and smelled strongly of ammonia. He wrinkled his nose as he stripped and deposited his ruined clothing into an orange wastebasket labeled “hazardous materials.” The image in the mirror stopped him on his way to the tiny shower.

A man stared at Percival that he barely recognized. His brown eyes were bloodshot and ringed in dark circles. Credence’s blood was on his face, drying uncomfortably over scruff that was a day away from becoming a beard. “Do you have a shaving kit?” Percival shouted. Moments later, the door cracked open and she pushed in the kit, cautious of his naked body. Percival grasped it and balanced it precariously on the edge of the incredibly small structure masquerading itself as a proper sink. With a long, tired exhale, he turned away from his reflection to start the shower.

He turned it on as high as it could go—showers in public facilities in New York City were going to be cold no matter what, but he could try—and stepped in. The water beat relentlessly at his skin at a lukewarm temperature as he scrubbed away the day’s filth. He’d handled blood before, his own as well as others, but this felt ingrained, indelible. Everything about this case was seared into his flesh and he couldn’t erase it with a shitty shower in a near-stranger’s, a possible _suspect’s,_ long-term room.

“It’s a fucking nightmare,” he told the showerhead. A merciless object, it did not cease its violent water pressure. He cursed at it again and then switched it off.

The walls were thin enough that while he dried himself off, Percival could listen to Tina in the room. She was talking at Credence, placating him even though he could not interact. “Agent Graves is a great detective, Credence,” she said in her slightly raspy voice. “I know he’ll get the guy that did this to you, I just know it.” She sounded like she was crying. “You… you deserve love in your life, okay? Okay, I’m just gonna…” He heard footsteps, then, “Percival!”

“Yeah?”

“Queenie is worried about me and wants me to come home. Are you okay here for the night?”

Percival donned the briefs, white t-shirt, and grey Calvin Klein sweatpants that Tina had brought him from home. “I’m fine!” he called back once he was dressed. He heard her grab her bag and recycle her tea cup before leaving.

Shaving took longer than he would have liked, but he had to concentrate harder with so much sleep deprivation, and he was not a man who allowed his face to be nicked or have razor burn. When he finished, he washed his face and pretended not to notice his ragged reflection. He breathed slowly and checked his watch, which had thankfully avoided the bloodbath his clothes had received. He read the hands at 4:01 AM, wondered where all of his time had gone, hoped Credence wasn’t awake so he could catch an hour of shut-eye before Picquery decided it was time for answers that he did not have.

He opened the door slowly. In the hall, a few lights were on as nurses trailed down the tile floor, heading into some rooms, exiting others. Visiting hours were over, but Percival had special permission as an FBI agent to guard “a potential suspect,” as Picquery had likely dubbed Credence to avoid confrontation with the hospital board. Undoubtedly police presence and security measures would increase as well, and Percival hoped it would be a quiet transition. The last thing the Manhattan office needed was the tabloids getting a hold of this; they would make Credence out to be the killer and the investigation would be overrun by greedy press corps intent on the juiciest outcome.

He opened the bathroom door and strode back into the room silently, directing his scrutiny to Credence’s bed. His view was blocked by a nurse in pale blue scrubs who was making notes on her chart and holding two fingers to Credence’s wrist. When she set his hand down, the handcuffs rattled. Percival flinched at the sound.

“Good morning,” she greeted Percival when she turned to see him. She was holding an intubation tube in her hand.

He tipped his head but did not answer; his eyes were fixated on the movement beyond her. Sleepily, the patient was stirring, blinking against the harsh light even as his eyes filled with terrified tears at strangeness of his surroundings. His gaze cast about frantically for an anchor, something familiar, and thus settled on Percival Graves. Credence took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Hey,” he whispered, and began to weep.


	4. The Memory

Tears, silent and abundant, streamed down Credence Barebone’s battered face. He seemed frozen in time, a statue standing in rain, a pale boy that had died crying. Percival found himself transfixed and just as still until Credence said his name. It was on a whisper, a small, “Mr. Graves,” and then the agent was moving. He rushed to Credence’s bed and sat on the edge, careful not to jostle his broken body.

“You’re alright, you’re safe.” Touching Credence’s hand, he met his sunken eyes before tearing himself away to question the nurse. She was setting up a respirator and disposing of the intubation tube. “How is he?” Percival asked, firmly ignoring the way Credence gripped his fingers, the way his blunt nails dug into the agent’s flesh and the way he did not mind at all the lingering pressure.

“He’s stable,” she informed him warmly. “The broken ribs and the blood loss were the things to watch out for, but you found him just in time. All that’s needed now is rest and plenty of it. Some proper nutrition and careful watching wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Percival felt a swell of anger for Mary Lou Barebone. He hid the snarl that would have accompanied the thought and instead gave his most charming smile. “How long will he need to remain here?”

The nurse—Anna Murphy, her name tag read—glanced uneasily at the handcuffs binding Credence to his bed. Credence followed her eyes and flushed. It was absurd, Percival thought, and unjust, but Picquery would not be disobeyed so easily. Smith and Natters had taken the key with them, and likely the only spare resided with Credence’s police detail in case of a medical emergency. “I suppose that depends on you,” Anna finally said, drawing him from plans to intimidate the keys out of the unsuspecting cops.

“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “Of course, any press or tabloid interference would cause numerous problems, and likely a prolonged stay and a considerable amount of pressure from the FBI…” he trailed off ominously, hoping she would understand his meaning.

She blushed furiously. “I would never sell information to… to… those _trash_ magazines!” Her eyes hardened and she bristled. “I’m here to do my job same as you, Agent Graves. I just don’t have a fancy badge to wave around and bully people with.”

“It’s a simple warning, Ms. Murphy. I hope the rest of your staff are as honest as you yourself claim to be.”

“I assure you, they are.” She made one last note on her clipboard and stalked away, leaving Percival to stare at Credence once more.

Though he had longed to be alone with Credence, Percival now felt uncertain. He was no grief counselor; what could he possibly glean from this conversation that would not be more easily extracted by a trained psychoanalyst? He could be charming or flirtatious, condescending or unkind, but never _open._ Never had he been asked to bond with a witness. Percival Graves was the man they sent in to _harass_ a witness. It was surely unnecessary to put Credence through his usual questioning.

They looked at each other. They looked away. Percival inhaled, and then asked softly, “Are you in much pain?”

Eyes fixed on his bound wrists, Credence set his jaw and shook his head. Percival narrowed his eyes because he knew what broken ribs felt like even with a morphine drip. He knew how it became difficult to breathe, how his body had felt constricted and far too loose all at once. And the bruises—Percival had never been covered in them like this, but he did not forget their tenderness. Credence was lying. He searched his mind for comfort words and was lost until he remembered his father. A hard man, righteous and disciplined, he had never lost a moment to teach his son how to be a soldier. “Accepting pain does not make you weak. It makes you stronger when you have met its attack and emerged victorious.”

Credence gasped through his oxygen mask and jolted in surprise. Fresh tears cascaded from his dark, anxious eyes as he regarded Percival. “I’m fine,” he rasped. “I’m fine.” He seemed to be telling himself more than telling Percival. The agent sighed before shifting closer and placing his hands on either side of Credence’s face, careful not to press on the myriad cuts and bruises, more intimate than he should have been. His fingertips intertwined with the mess of hair tangled at the nape of Credence’s neck. Both nervous and amazed, Credence leaned into the contact. His shoulders lost some of their tension. He gasped. Percival pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, tacitly begging the truth.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Credence insisted through his teeth. His voice was so small. “Where is my mother? When can I go home?”

After the surprise subsided, Percival’s stomach turned to lead and his mouth filled with harsh words that he carefully swallowed down. He was glad of Mary Lou Barebone’s death, yet he knew Credence would hardly be able to bear the news. And trauma-induced amnesia—that was a significant obstacle, because it compromised both evidence collection and witness counseling. “How much do you remember?” he inquired vaguely. Hoping to avoid the inevitable for just a while longer, he moved his thumbs in circles over Credence’s skin, soothing.

Long lashes blinking rapidly, Credence turned his head in shame. Percival was still holding him. Credence made no indication that he wanted to be released from the agent. “I… I _don’t_ ,” he murmured. His eyes widened and he took a long, shuddering breath. “Why can’t I remember?” he shouted, and pulled frantically at the handcuffs. Percival released him then. As Credence struggled, the cuffs dug into his wrists, padded only by the bandages wrapped over his hands and forearms.

“Credence!” Percival exclaimed. His protests were to no avail.

“ _What happened?_ ” Credence screamed. He fought against the restraints with the desperation of a wild animal in a trap. “ _What am I doing here?_ ”

Percival pressed the call button as the machines screamed about Credence’s elevated heart rate. A moment later, as Percival was attempting to restrain Credence, Nurse Murphy appeared carrying a syringe. Credence eyed it fearfully and began to writhe in his bed. The sight turned Percival’s heart to glass, and it shattered as Anna plunged the needle into Credence’s IV tube. Soon his eyelids closed. Percival put his hands behind Credence’s shoulder blades to lay him gently down instead of allowing him to fall.

Anna looked upon the agent with a scowl. “You people, always needing your answers. This… this isn’t an interrogation room. It’s a _hospital._ ” She turned on her heel and left him.

Percival stared uselessly at her retreating form and then at Credence. The frustration he had felt vanished and was replaced with regret. He had pushed Credence too far, too fast. He should have given him answers or waited for Tina. Tina, with her open smile and unending compassion, would have known what to do. Percival felt he rather fucked the whole thing up.

He absentmindedly stoked his hand through Credence’s hair. Twenty years old and already a victim of intolerable tragedies. Though Percival had experienced suffering in his youth, he was not fool enough to think their experiences comparable. The thoughts made his chest heavy. His fingers ghosted over Credence’s bruised cheekbones, feather light, as if he could heal them with his touch alone.

When he finally caught himself, he stood up and stepped away from the bed, ashamed. Blaming it on his lack of sleep, he stretched and moved back to the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. It creaked as he settled into it. Although he did not imagine sleep would come, it felt right to watch over Credence. He mulled over the case in silence as he studied the rise and fall of the young man’s chest, the frailty that seemed to accompany his every movement. Percival was all at once saddened and motivated by it.

Credence Barebone was the FBI’s only witness and only suspect. He showed almost every wound pattern characteristic of the Manhattan Menace: horizontal lacerations on the legs and vertical lacerations on the hands, a heavily bruised face, and other blunt force trauma that, in Credence’s case, resulted in broken ribs. Percival did have to admit that some pieces of this puzzle simply did not add up; the cuts should have been post-mortem and there were no bruises on Credence’s throat to evidence an attempt at strangulation.

He texted Tina a request for the Barebone sisters’ and mother’s autopsy reports as he ran his other hand through his hair. There would be inconsistencies there, too. Percival knew at least that Modesty fit the pattern—he had seen the hand-shaped bruises around her throat, and the blood pooled around her small body. Chastity had been covered when he investigated the church, so he would have to wait. Finally, the mother and her broken neck. Percival was willing to bet there were no strangulation marks on her, either. He had already dismissed the idea of a copycat, so was the killer simply evolving? Mocking them? The neck bruises had never been clear enough to establish a hand size, but did the Menace know that? Was he scared?

The simplest assumption that the Bureau could make was that Credence was the Manhattan Menace. Picquery already expected as much. Percival felt he and Tina were alone in their desire to protect and acquit Credence Barebone, which would be no small feat if they were working against the entire department and its Special Agent in Charge. The mere thought of such blatant disobedience sent his stomach churning. Yet he knew this was the correct path, the path to proving Credence’s innocence and saving the borough, and that was enough to swallow any discomfort or trepidation.

Credence would be asleep for hours more due to the sedatives. Percival felt compelled to rest, to at least shut his eyes. If his mind could not relax, perhaps his body could, or he would be of no use to Credence. This assignment required his best. He rubbed the heels of his hands into closed, sore eyes. His best really hadn’t felt good enough for this entire case.

Shifting in the chair, he noticed another bag—pink, reading KOWALSKI BAKERY—that Tina had left leaning against its leg. He pulled it to his lap and searched the contents with a small smile; inside was his own toothbrush, deodorant, his phone charger, and his trench coat. When he stood to hang it in the closet, his windbreaker slid noisily out from inside it. He cursed the item, but resolved not to leave it lying there simply because he could not abide by such untidiness. It was slung on the farthest hanger from his trench.

Percival’s breath caught when he turned once more to see Credence so unnaturally still. He watched his chest rise and fall from afar, enraptured, enraged. Credence seemed delicate and sharp all at once, like broken porcelain. Percival wanted to put him back together, but he was also wary of getting too close, and of being cut by his edges.

The clock pointed to 5:30 AM. Prying his eyes from Credence, Percival stared at the numbers with a frown. Then he went to the miniscule bathroom to get ready for work. He kept the door cracked open, every so often looking to Credence and assuring himself that he was still sleeping. Calmer now, his face was unburdened by nightmares and his breath was even, a stark contrast to his earlier state. His lips parted slightly, long lashes fluttered in his peace. This pleased Percival in a way he felt best not to examine too closely for the time being.

His reflection was the face of a haggard, nearly defeated man. Squaring his jaw, Percival stared back, determination flaring within his dark brown eyes. He splashed water on his face, breathed in the sterile air. He dressed, clipped his badge to his belt, and slid his gun in its holster. Credence’s room offered sounds of the respirator and heart rate monitor as he returned, again drawing close to the young man’s bed.

His hand brushed back jagged bangs. Credence was warmer than before, with some color returning to his pallid face. Percival knew he could not hear him, but he felt compelled to murmur, “I will come back.” It felt silly, the assurance, and he chastised himself before he walked away and out of the room. The two policeman guarding Credence’s room gave him small, respectful nods when he passed. He resolved to get those handcuff keys from one of them when he returned.

Outside the hospital, he felt he could finally breathe again. It was stiff in there, the air thick with disease and dismay. Percival Graves despised hospitals for their bad memories. A mother who died to bring him into this world, and a father whose drug and alcohol addictions forced a twenty-six year old to leave the FBI academy to identify a corpse. It had almost been enough to make him quit drinking, but the nightmares eventually won that battle. Now he stuck to wine and nicotine.

He shook the recollections away and pulled a cigarette—Tina graciously left a pack in his trench coat—from his pocket. She’d forgotten a lighter, so he borrowed one from a nurse on break. He thanked him and then headed down the street in search of breakfast with nicotine burning his lungs. As he walked, he dialed Tina. She picked up on the second ring.

“Mmm?” she asked, sounding like she had a mouth full of food.

“Are you at Kowalski’s bakery?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Get me a bagel.”

“Mm!”

He sighed. “Please.”

“Mm.”

“I’ll meet you at the office,” he said, and then hung up. He checked his watch and decided it was too late to walk all the way, so he hailed a cab. The drivers were always happy to pick up a man in a suit and trench coat and styled hair; they could see the money from miles away. Never once did he have to wave his badge in the air to get a ride, which he knew had happened to Tina on several occasions. He’d told her it was the shoes. She had stomped on his feet.

“Make it fast,” Percival ordered. “26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan.” The cabbie nodded curtly before taking off into the traffic, driving recklessly and as fast as Percival had expected. He leaned back in his seat and withdrew several crisp bills from his wallet. “Faster,” he commented, and held up a fifty.

They made it to Manhattan in record time and with a miraculous lack of casualties. Percival was eighty dollars poorer but ten minutes early to work. The tall, rectangular building reached into the sky as an imposing and tangible symbol of public security. Only agents arrived this early, but there would be civilians in the building later. They would be giving tips about the Manhattan Menace—tips always came in waves after a new body was found—and the FBI unit would be forced to investigate each one. In the office, they had a name for that group: Garbage Men. Even the members of that detail agreed it was an apt title; no actual shred of evidence ever came from the tips, which usually consisted of half dozen people insisting that the Menace went to their grocery store. The Garbage Men were smart, though. Those people had a knack for discovering the falsities without giving away private information from the investigation. Percival admired them more than he would admit aloud.

“Good morning, Agent Graves,” Abernathy greeted nervously.

Percival flashed his badge, said nothing in return, and punched the elevator button with enough force to make the secretary retreat behind his desk. That encounter and the cheery elevator music combined with his exhaustion and hunger put him in a terrible mood as he exited to floor 44. The interns skirted past him. The other agents only looked at him out of the corners of their eyes.

Tina met him full force, a smile on her face and a brown paper bag in her right hand. She held it up, pushed it to his chest until he held it, and then practically skipped back to her desk.

“Did Picquery forgive you?” he asked incredulously.

Her smile faded slightly. “Erm, big no on that front. _But,_ Newt called.”

Percival knit his brows together and sat as he pulled out a warm bagel. It was whole grain and spread with a bitter blackberry jam, just how he liked it. He thanked her with a thumbs up and ate while she continued.

“Don’t give me that face, like, ‘ _Oh, he calls every day, what’s so special about that?’_ ”

Percival lifted his eyebrows to suggest that was his exact line of thought.

“You remember he’s writing a book, right?”

He chewed, swallowed, nodded. “That children’s book about magical creatures.”

She _tsk_ ed. “Technically, yes, but he’s done enough research that I think it should be almost an… academic mythology text, really. He’s traveled all over the world.” She looked so happy and proud. So unfocused on their task.

“Is this relevant to the case?” Files, notes, and photographs lined their desks. The stacks spread like wildfire, with no end in sight.

Tina pursed her lips and swiveled her chair so she could point a pen at him. Percival noticed it was the same she had assaulted him with the other day; he’d forgotten to ‘misplace’ it when she went home. “He’s coming to see me after it’s published.”

“Well, congratulations, when is the marriage?” he asked brusquely.

“We’re not, he’s not, I was just—”

“And we can invite the Menace while we’re at it! Wait, we can’t, _because we haven’t caught the motherfucker yet!”_ He shouted the last part so loudly that heads turned and Picquery stormed out of her office. Tina blinked tear-filled eyes at him.

His heart plummeted to his stomach. “Oh, fuck, Tina, I didn’t—”

She looked up at the lights, biting her lip. “No, you’re right… I was being stupid. Work over love, huh partner? That’s what you always taught me.”

Percival reached over to grasp her hand. She allowed the comfort and even pressed her other hand on top of his. He squeezed, she smiled and sniffed.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Tina.”

“I shouldn’t have bringing my personal life into this case, Percival. What was it you said earlier, uh, ‘I raised you better than this’? You did. Forgive me?”

“Only if you forgive me,” he replied softly.

Tina gave him a wry smile, mouthed ‘duh,’ and proceeded to strike him on the nose with that damn ballpoint pen. He cursed and she giggled, and every spectator sped back to their morning routine before Agent Graves could notice their gawking. Only Picquery remained, warily overseeing her agents, gaze fixated dangerously on Tina Goldstein. She left after a few minutes, taking the chill in the room with her.

But Graves and Goldstein did not notice. They had divided up the document piles and were already nose-deep in research. Occasionally a sticky note would pass between them, or part of Percival’s bagel would be surrendered to his partner. Stretching breaks were reserved for putting notes and pictures on the wall. Minutes became hours in a blur. Percival felt like his bones were shifting in his skin, begging him to move. His eyes were painfully dry.

His mind would not stop drifting. Every time he read _Credence Barebone_ on a file, he pictured the boy in the hospital bed, clinging to life. His imagination flitted between images of separate fates for Credence. Dead or alive, broken or healed. Percival felt the shame of hypocrisy boil in his veins. He often preached the hazard of personal attachment, and now he was diving in headfirst into those tumultuous waters.

Percival scratched the back of his neck and scowled at himself. “Are we being punished?” he asked Tina at 10 AM, a knowing lilt in his voice. Of course they were; Tina would be barred from field work for a while because of her mistake, and Percival had disobeyed a direct order from his superior officer. There was hell to pay.

Tina wasn’t paying enough attention to answer. Her head was lowered, tongue stuck out between her lips in concentration. Percival chuckled. She jumped, almost knocking over her mug, and dropped her pen. Still laughing, Percival covered his mouth to quiet himself. Tina glared at him murderously. The bags under her eyes were almost as dark as his.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Are you?” she retorted, knowing all too well his pattern of sleeplessness.

He huffed as she handed him another file. “Fair enough,” he finally replied, and then opened the folder to inspect its contents.

 _Barebone Family Research,_ read the title. His knee bounced beneath the desk. _Character accounts from neighbors and patrons._ He pressed his pointer finger across his lips while he skimmed the first page. The police had handwritten the neighbors’ words verbatim and sketched faces next to them, with phone numbers and emails beneath each headshot.

 _Intensely religious, the Barebone family. They keep mostly to themselves. I never hear loud noises or any disturbances, even during their Sunday service, so I let them be. I didn’t hear anything that night, either. The only reason I thought something was wrong was when the kids showed up for soup and no one opened the doors for them._ This was from the woman who had initially called the police to the house.

_Friendly woman, well behaved children. Good of the older one to stick around and help his mother with the church duties. Or he could be, you know, a little slow, if you catch my meaning. So she wants to keep him close and safe, and I get that. Yeah. Good folk. Shame._

_I think the boy did it. Creepy kid. Always in black, doesn’t say much. I’d bet money it was him. Did I see anything? No. But I’m sure it was him._ The police described this witness as brash and boasting, a ‘man of poor temperament and strong smell’ and urged the bureau to treat his statement with skepticism.

Percival noted with contentment that the majority of people seemed to see Credence as soft and quiet, or at least incapable of murder. Some were distrustful and wary of his introversion. Even less outright stated their certainty that he was the perpetrator, but they were easily inadmissible because they described outlandish stories of Credence bullying his mother and sisters, which was corroborated by no other neighbors. He smiled at Tina. She tilted her head quizzically.

“We’re a step closer to clearing Credence.”

“Are we?”

“Read these.” He passed her the witness files and she traded him a thin folder labeled _Credence Barebone._

Pulse jumping, he flipped it open. First was Credence’s birth certificate. His full name was Credence Matthew Barebone, his birthdate was November 2, 1996. “He’ll be twenty-one in three months,” he told Tina.

“I doubt that woman ever celebrated a birthday for him, Percival,” Tina remarked with an edge to her voice. She paused for a while, looking out to the balcony with a somber expression. “You said in three months? If this is over by then, we should celebrate with him.”

“You and your good heart,” he teased, yet he could not deny the warmth filling his chest at the idea. His grip tightened on the file’s corner, almost tearing it.

“Yeah, tell me you’re not a teensy bit attached.”

“I’m doing my best not to be.” He was not.

Tina swiveled around in a full circle in her chair as she said, “Maybe we should, you know. Get attached. Gives us a reason to really go after this guy.”

He laughed. “I think we have reason enough.”

Another full circle, another thoughtful twisting of her mouth. “I guess.”

“The Menace has killed _seven_ people. Seven.”

“And that could have been eight, but it’s not. Credence Barebone, whether we like it or not, is our responsibility, and I’m not going to treat him like some piece of evidence. He’s young, and hurting, and God knows what his mother did to him. You said in the hospital that you wanted to be there for him. I do, too.”

She said this all to her desk, but there was a hard look to her face and a determination in her voice that was usually absent when she was being ignored by Picquery. The lack of validation and direction usually made her insecure, inept. Percival, however, saw the fire in her eyes. There was the woman he’d trained. There was his partner.

“Goldstein, in my office, now!” Picquery yelled. The fire died.


	5. The Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! I've been focused on essays for school rather than writing for fun. Hopefully spring break will give me the chance to change that! Thank you all for your support, kudos, and comments, as all are appreciated and inspiring. Enjoy!

To Percival Graves’ weary eyes, the file’s black letters pulsed on stiff white paper, and on the manila envelopes with off-white labels that were losing their stickiness and curling at the edges. Each promised more evidence, more time, more headaches. His own handwriting marked an envelope labeled _Suspects,_ and he stared at it for a while before sliding Credence’s information into it per protocol. The decision produced a dull ache in his chest that he managed to ignore. Work had always come first in his world. The fact that those lines were blurring—and that he could not seem to stop them from doing so—weighed heavy in his stomach.

Tina had been in Picquery’s office for only ten minutes. To her, it doubtlessly seemed a lifetime. Percival busied himself with organizing autopsy photos—the older four from files, and the newer three Tina had brought him in the hospital. He hadn’t looked at them until now, too distracted by Credence. Mentally chastising himself, he produced them from that library bag she’d left and lined them at the end of the others, still covered.

The reports placed Mary Lou Barebone’s murder first in the triple homicide. Percival laid out the thick, shining photos of the New Jersey woman, then the two street kids and the family. The first murders seemed too random. Had one of the incidents been accidents? If Tina’s theory was at least partially correct, one of the kills—Percival was certain it was the first—could have been intentional, while the latter was impulsive. He likened it to a lone wolf, scared into killing. Yet, was it spontaneity? Or practice? Jotting this all down on sticky notes, he pressed them to the photo edges and moved on.

Next was Henry Shaw. _That_ did not seem random. As a government agent, Percival would never admit aloud that Shaw’s death seemed preferable to Shaw being in office. The man was vehemently homophobic, racist, and sexist. Bigoted in every way he could conceive. Reading the senatorial candidate’s platform had given Percival a much better understanding of why Langdon Shaw was an alcoholic. Henry’s photo joined the rest.

The Barebones, then. With his blood cold, he regarded the final three pictures. They felt the most personal. There was a connection to Shaw in the conservatism, too, though Percival had not read much about their religious views yet and would not assume. If they were to develop that as a pattern, however, he would need more information on the New Jersey woman, the first victim. He slid her folder from beneath the others and set is aside for later.

Tina’s absence stretched ten minutes longer. Percival, grimacing, uncovered the Barebone women’s photographs. Mary Lou’s cause of death, scrawled in the nearly indiscernible handwriting of the medical examiner, was her broken neck. She was also the first victim to show pre-mortem injuries; the fingernail marks in her palms indicated a natural response to pain. Percival frantically looked to Modesty’s report, feeling nauseous. He released a breath he had not meant to hold when he confirmed the mutilation came after her death.

Percival looked back to Mary Lou and was surprised to see strangulation marks on her neck, a set of bruises he had not expected to see on her. The ME listed the hand’s size and shape as inconclusive because of the plethora of surrounding wounds. Percival stuck a note to the report that asked _Purposeful?_ Chastity was second to die. Her neck was snapped, the bruises only matching the pressure it took to twist it, because her body hadn’t been thrown over the balcony like her mother. The cuts were pre- and post-mortem. Percival scratched the back of this head and blinked, reaching into his brain for any sort of explanation. Modesty, third to die, fit the Menace’s original M.O. without error. This made it the most peculiar.

He pointed to the nearest intern and demanded coffee from him. The intern winced and, in words that were so obviously Tina’s, apologized and informed him that he had been cut off from copious amounts of caffeine. A few choice curse words on his part left the intern scrambling for a cup and promising to return in five minutes.

Percival did not have five minutes. He grew increasingly frustrated over the case and its killer’s nonsensical pattern. And when he set a picture of Credence next to the corpses, his heart pulled. The thought that he could be examining photos of eight bodies, one specifically being Credence, caused his chest to constrict. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

With Tina still gone and unable to keep him from his dangerous musings, his mind was free to wonder back to Credence, fragile, listless, and asleep in his hospital bed. Chained. An anger so deep and profound it felt like an inferno began in the pit of his stomach and turned his blood from ice to fire. Percival’s whole body was ablaze, his pulse racing. He almost stood to forsake his duties and rush back to Metro General. Before he could grab his trench coat from the back of his chair, he shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek, and promptly pressed his feet flat into the carpet.

Percival did not want to consider why Credence Barebone had come to matter so much to him in so little time. He did not want to consider why he was so fixated on the shape of his mouth, or the burning desire for revenge that seized him when he thought of the killer who had almost ensured Credence Barebone and Special Agent Graves would never meet. The realization that such a thought was unbearable caused a deep-seated panic in Percival. Attachments, emotions, compassion; these he had all renounced. Now he knew he was not only allowing them into his life, but letting them take control.

He bounced his knee. He needed Tina back in the chair to his right, swiveling, smiling. Percival too often allowed himself to trudge through the murky waters of their cases. Tina’s idealism gave a little sunshine to his fatalism. Scribbling another note beside Credence’s photograph, he felt his mind slipping back into those shadows.

Credence could not be the killer; Percival could not conceive of a world that cruel despite his years of witnessing firsthand the merciless irony of life. And although he led a life of reason, he was compelled to trust his instincts on this case, and those instincts screamed at him to wrap Credence Barebone in his arms and never let go. Picquery be damned, ethics be damned.

Percival squeezed his eyes shut. He needed caffeine more than he thought if he was considering abandoning an oath he had sworn to both his father and the academy. When he cast his aggravated eyes around to the interns in search of his promised coffee, he saw one had already been set precariously on his desk edge. _Starbucks_ had misspelled his name again. He exhaled an amalgamation of frustrations, popped the lid, and downed a sizeable gulp of black coffee. It burned his throat, but he swallowed the discomfort. Leaning back in his chair, he let the front wheels float above the floor before settling back down. He fought the urge to check his watch or Picquery’s office door. Neither would bring Tina back to her station sooner.

The coffee cup was drained in minutes. Percival was forced to stand and pace, following lines of red yarn and muttering threats at the ever-augmenting evidence board for not revealing its secrets. He took a cigarette break, then ran to the bathroom. Neither brought him a revelation. When he returned to the board, it sniggered at him and withdrew even further into its shroud of mystery even as Percival clawed at it, his usually calm demeanor collapsing in desperation.

When Tina’s absence began to hinder his progress, he stalked to a glass door at the farthest end of the floor. Simple blue letters in the center read _Special Agent in Charge_. His eyes widened in surprise when the only woman he saw inside was Picquery, typing with intent focus. Percival knocked lightly on the _Agent_ in her door’s description and waited patiently as she stopped her work and walked over to unlock it.

She did not speak until she was seated again. “Agent Graves, how may I help you?”

“Ma’am, I need my partner.”

Picquery narrowed her eyes at him. “I sent her home for the day.”

Percival scowled. “My brain is scattered all over that desk. I need her to come pick it up.”

“I have the utmost faith in your abilities, Agent Graves. Your record without Goldstein is, in my opinion, far more remarkable than your record with her.”

Darkness coated his voice as he answered, “Need I remind you who I was then?”

She folded her manicured hands and stared, unblinking, challenging. “Need I remind you what you were capable of, and how those abilities were instrumental to this agency?”

“Don’t push me, Picquery.”

She never looked away. “Don’t make me, Graves,” she growled. “I respect your autonomy, and you are my best agent, but I will not tolerate any more of this. Do I make myself clear?”

 _I can’t promise anything,_ he said, only it came out, “Of course, ma’am.”

“Good.” Her voice lost some of its iciness. Her anger had always been so cold. “Tina took all of your paperwork; I can’t have her being any more useless than she already is. I want _you_ at the hospital to question the suspect. Smith and Natters are already there and a nurse has agreed to facilitate a psych evaluation.”

Percival had already started walking out when he heard those men were anywhere near Credence. Smith was simply incompetent, inadequate. Natters, however; Percival knew his ego and obsession with power would make a dangerous combination for such a fragile case. He was a Molotov cocktail of a man. Percival very much wanted to put him out.

He moved swiftly and silently through the desks, highly aware that the other agents’ eyes were following his every move. Percival wanted them to see his composure and the pristine three piece suit he was wearing rather than his worry. Back at his desk, he slipped on his trench, wondering how careless he must have been not to notice that Tina’s things were absent. She must have picked them up when he was smoking, he decided, and wondered if he should text her.

His phone buzzed and he plucked it from his desk, not even bothering to check the caller ID because he was sure it was his partner. Instead, an anxious voice spoke so rapidly that he caught only segments of words, truly only sounds, and he had to curse at the caller a few times as he walked to the elevator. Finally, the mess of what he assumed was English became coherent enough that he recognized Smith’s nasal whine. Percival’s pace quickened.

“Smith, calm the hell down and give me something that doesn’t sound like a toddler.”

“The kid, Graves, he, oh God, Picquery’s gonna kill us…”

“Taxi!” Percival yelled to the street. A mustard yellow cab almost rode up on the curb in its eagerness to get to him. “Metro General, as fast as you can go without killing someone.” They were off, and Percival was speaking with as much restraint as he could manage. “Smith, explain.” His anger was simmering, not yet having reached the extreme that he feared it was inching toward. That incline would depend on Smith’s response. There was a gulp as if he was drinking water. “Natters wanted the kid out of the bed to do the eval, okay? And the nurse didn’t like it, but she didn’t fight it, and so they got him out of the cuffs just to put him in a different room. Like, uh, like set up like a police station, ‘cause Natters wanted to spook him a bit.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah, ah, so. So. Kid went ballistic, asked for you, asked about his mom, and then when the nurse tried to restrain him, he stabbed her.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“With a pen?” he added, as if the pen was somehow less severe. “But he wasn’t going for the nurse, Graves. She stepped in front of Natters.”

Percival ran his fingers through his hair, upsetting its flawless structure. “Jesus Christ. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” The cabbie glanced at him in the mirror.

Smith cleared his throat, and his voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “Look, you know I don’t think he’s innocent, but this was all Natters. He pushed on an unstable suspect. He _wanted_ to get this kind of response from him so we could call it a case closed. And I know you don’t want my opinion, but I was trained as a profiler, okay? And Barebone had no idea how to be violent, just grabbed something and fought back because Natters pressed too hard. Combined with his family history, I think it just flipped some switch in him. This was primal, he was hurt.”

A shiver ran like melting ice through Percival’s spine. His heart beat loud and fast in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he tried to think of anything that would explain away an unsettlingly similar theory. He could not dismiss Tina nor Natters; despite his lack of respect for the latter, the man had proved himself in the bureau enough to possess a shred of credibility. So he waited, closed his eyes and counted the seconds while his heart begged his head to be wrong for once.

“Would you say that’s a typical response of someone with this background?”

Smith sighed, relieved not to have been the subject of one Percival’s savage lectures. “Yes, yes, absolutely. If anything, this makes him less guilty to me. I mean, a pen? There were other things around, y’know, like his IV needle, or a metal clipboard. The Menace may be an animal, but there’s a pattern and precision with his work that doesn’t connect to this.”

“The nurse?”

“She’s fine physically, I’m told. Won’t really talk to us. Not that I blame her. So, uh. What I said earlier? I take it back. Special privileges are back and I’m at your disposal. Are you close?”

“Pulling in,” Percival grunted. He punched in the appropriate tip as he slid his credit card through the cabbie’s console. As soon as it was done, he shoved open the door and jogged into Metro General. Recognizing him, a doctor who had been on rotation the previous night made a grim face and waved him to him.

“He’s been moved out of the ICU since he’s stable,” the man explained. “I’m sure you understand that his security has also been raised, and we’ve put him in a more isolated area.”

Percival’s patience was paper-thin. “I do.” Polite, amicable. “May you direct me there?”

“Yep, room 463, and the elevators are just around the corner.”

“Thank you,” Percival replied curtly. Everything seemed to slow down around him while he walked to the row of elevators and pressed the up arrow. It lit a few seconds before a high-pitched ding sounded and he could go inside and press the button to take him to floor four.

The only other passenger was a small, old woman leaning on a walker in the corner. She smiled warmly at him the way that most elders do, with her lips pressed closed and eyes that sparkled like she brought a candy bar just for him. “I’m sure they’ll be okay,” she said.

Distracted, Percival had to scramble to answer in appropriate time. “Who?” he asked.

“I remember feeling so scared ‘bout my husband when he had his heart attack. You visitin’ someone you love?”

Percival decided he did not want to spoil her reminiscing. “Yes,” he lied, not completely paying attention to her.

“They in trouble?”

“Quite a bit, I’m afraid.” His heart skipped a beat but he attributed it to the anticipation he felt at the possibility of strangling Natters.

She patted his shoulder with her wrinkled hand. “They’ll be okay,” she insisted. The elevator halted and opened to his floor. “Good luck, sonny,” she called as he rushed out. He gave a small, distracted wave over his shoulder as he followed the signs to 463.

The guards moved aside before they even saw his badge. He opened the door. “Credence,” he said on a breath.

Credence opened his eyes but did not lift his head from the mediocre hospital pillow. “Mr. Graves?” he whispered. His eyes were red and puffy from tears, his voice raw from screaming. He sounded hollow and confused. Percival walked softly over to him and sat in the provided chair, then dragged it closer to sit near enough that he they could touch if they wanted.

Credence’s wrists and ankles were secured in four-point restraints with handcuffs snapped overtop. It made Percival sick, but he no longer had the right to argue for their removal when Credence had assaulted Metro staff. Percival took comfort in the steady beeping of Credence’s monitors and the generally healthier appearance just one day had afforded him. His color was returning, pale but no longer ghoulishly so, and clean bandages no longer bore remnants of torn stitches and stray bleeding.

“You scared my colleagues quite a bit, Credence.”

Despondent, Credence turned his face away to stare out of the window. The view was nothing special; rows of tall buildings, a nebulous grey sky. Yet Credence fixated on it. His hands clenched as the memories forced themselves past a blockade of denial that Percival was certain he had constructed.

“Listen, I know that Natters can be an ass—”

“An ass?” Credence snarled, and sat up. Percival did not flinch backwards, instead meeting the boy’s eyes calmly. Credence’s initial fury had ebbed to something more raw, something distressed and lonesome. “He told me I killed my mom,” he squeaked. “He said I cut them up and left them to bleed.” He looked at his hands, disgust curled in his lip. Then he looked back at Percival. “Did I?”

Percival steeled himself to work against his own heart. “I shouldn’t discuss details of the investigation with you, Credence. Natters was wrong to do that outside of proper interrogation protocol and without your lawyer present.”

Credence gave him a wry, listless smile. “I did, then.” Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and laid back down. “I’m a monster, just like he said.”

The agent’s blood boiled with rage. Natters had crossed too many lines. He’d compromised the case and their only witness’ mental health, and for what? The slim possibility of a confession, or the selfish desire to sabotage what rapport Percival had established? Either was just cause for a suspension. Percival wanted to see Natters put his badge on Picquery’s desk and then throw him out of headquarters with his own fucking hands.

“I… Credence.” Percival sighed. He glanced over his shoulder to assure they were alone before reaching out and touching Credence’s hand. Credence pulled away like Percival had burned him. They stared at each other. Percival could not yet find the right words to apologize. Slowly, as the space between them stretched thinner, Credence’s panic ebbed away, retreating like one of those heavy rains that only fell for a few moments.

Credence stretched his fingers out. An invitation. Percival closed his fist over bony wrists and slowly slid his hand down to wrap around Credence’s. Credence blushed and stared intently at a spot in his bedsheets.

Ducking his head slightly, Percival smiled sadly. “I don’t think you’re a monster, Credence. There are some of us who would see you go free at the end of all this.”

“What’s ‘all this’?” Credence asked through clenched teeth. Percival shook his head as he opened his mouth to insist it wasn’t information he should hear. But Credence read this and turned sharp, sorrowful eyes on him. “Please,” he begged. “Please, I need something to hold on to.”

Percival tapped his foot. Then, quietly, “Your family was murdered, Credence, and you are the only witness. Which also makes you the only suspect.” Credence had gone rigid. Percival could feel him digging his fingernails into his own palms and turned his hand over, stopping him. The scars and newer lacerations were still jarring.

“Credence,” he whispered. He repeated his name twice more, forcefully, before Credence could move at all. His chin dropped and he closed his eyes. A deep, shuddering sigh pulled itself from his lungs as his body reminded him to breathe. Percival reached out tentatively with his fingers to cup Credence’s cheek. Leaning into the contact like it was his anchor, Credence exhaled again and bit his lip.

“They’re all gone?” he asked after the tears had dried. Percival brushed his thumbs over the trails they had left.

“Yes. I am truly sorry.” His voice could not reach anything but a whisper. “I will do everything I can to bring you justice, Credence, but if you remember anything, a face, anything, that would help us prove your innocence.”

Curling his shoulders inward, Credence strained his neck away and withdrew from Graves’ warmth. His mouth curled into a small snarl. “I thought you were different,” he murmured. He let go of Percival’s hand and no longer held his gaze. “But you just want my memories, huh?” The hollowness in his eyes was matched by a hapless chuckle.

Percival swallowed the usual offense he would have taken and wrapped his fingers together. “I want to help you,” he said softly. “Your memories are part of that. I have nothing to gain from this case besides catching a murderer _and helping you_.”

Credence collapsed once more onto the bed, seemingly more relaxed. He trailed his finger absentmindedly over Percival’s wrist and whispered, “Promise?”

FBI agents, just like doctors, should not make promises. Percival had been taught this, and then had taught this to eager and optimistic students at Quantico. He had never made a promise to a victim because he could guarantee the best outcome; he found such idealism foolish and happy endings borderline absurd. There were no heroes, merely the righteous or the damned.

Percival considered the soft pressure on his wrist. Credence had only ever known promises of beatings and abuse. He knew fear, not hope; anger, not forgiveness. Everything about him was unsure and timid. When he had asked for this assurance, it was because he did not expect to be deserving of one and because nothing else could convince him that he mattered.

“I promise.”


	6. The Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that took forever! I apologize for the delay, but school must come first.  
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and/or commented. You are the ones that motivate me. I hope you continue to enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it. I adore you all.

They did not talk again for two days. Percival’s promise had been a sincere one, and one that settled in the back of his mind and whispered regret whenever he opened a case file and the name _Credence Barebone_ appeared. But that promise also meant more late nights at the office. He took to staying until Picquery kicked him out. Then he took his files home and took to memorizing every detail until his body dragged him into fitful bouts of sleep.

Their silence was not a purposeful one. After Percival had made that damn promise, Credence had gripped his wrist with all the strength in him—which, while not much, had been surprising all the same—and thanked him with gratitude and confidence so fierce it made Percival dizzy. How could he live up to those fucking expectations when Credence barely knew him? When he’d made no headway on the case that really counted? Percival felt the pressure to succeed almost as profoundly as he felt Credence’s fingers twined with his.

So he’d changed the subject and chipped away at the icy exterior of Credence’s mind to find a few family details. Credence loved his sisters with all of his heart, but Chastity seemed more like their mother than he was willing to acknowledge. Mary Lou Barebone was deeply conservative, almost fanatical in her ideologies, and raised her adopted children the same way. Credence had slowly admitted how he’d begun to shy away from their religion. He never mentioned the abuse.

When the stress of it had elevated Credence’s heartrate past what the doctors wanted, a nurse came in and whisked him away from her “very fragile” patient. One look at Percival also gave her enough cause to threaten him with a bed and IV fluids if he didn’t go get some food and sleep. Percival was also banned from Credence’s room for three days, as was every other agent. The outside guard rotation was granted unique permission to remain.

Food Percival could manage. He’d brought Tina her favorite pizza while she lay cooped up in her apartment living room. She was going mad. Yet lounging beside her fireplace, discussing anything but the case, Percival had almost felt whole again, like one of those glass artists who picked stray shards off of beaches had put his mellow blue pieces into a pile and said, _let’s fix this._

Percival had not been fixed. His body was dealing with the stress by depleting the small bits of energy he had left, but he kept going to the bureau gym and running around Manhattan anyway.

“What are you running from?” Queenie had asked him the last time he went over to the Goldstein apartment for dinner.

“ _Toward,_ ” he corrected her. “To catch this bastard.” Tina had toasted him with the wine they had opened. Queenie had given him a small smile to let him know she did not believe him. When he had to continue banishing thoughts of Credence all night, he almost felt she had caught him in his lie.

Credence’s absence should not have affected him as adversely as it had, Percival knew. He so desperately wanted his obsession to be about finding a killer. But he had stopped being able to see the bigger picture; now every word and every image burdened him with memories of how Credence’s hand felt in his. He recalled skin as cold as ice, and wondered what it would take to make it feel like fire.

On the night of the second day, a Saturday, he got wasted and walked around his apartment in boxers and nothing else. The city lights glowing behind his walls and windows were particularly mesmerizing in the darkness, not to mention when tinged with the blurry giddiness of alcohol. But Percival was not a happy drunk. Five glasses of wine in and he was lying on the floor, barely feeling the cold hardwood. Recollections of his past came like nightmares. He chased them away with the rest of the bottle.

On the morning of the third day, a Sunday, Percival woke with muscles sore enough that a run felt like a death sentence. The pounding headache did not help much, either. He groaned, rolled over, and stared at his alarm clock. Realizing that the numbers did in fact read 8:17 AM, he sat bolt upright and checked his phone to see if that time matched.

He sighed when it did. It was so late. Notifications blared across the screen and he blinked worriedly at them, wondering how much he’d missed. To no surprise, most of them were from Tina, who he’d assured he would take to get coffee at seven. The most recent read, _Don’t freak out but I’m downstairs._ Percival’s senses eventually gathered the scent of his own coffee brewing from below. His mouth crooked into a small smile.

Percival treaded gingerly to his bathroom to splash water on his face. A quick look in the mirror helped him fix his hair but not his eyes, which bore their typical dark circles. From the back of his door he grabbed a white cashmere robe and tied it securely around his waist before stepping back into his room. He couldn’t remember how he’d managed to find his way from the living room floor to his bed, but he was glad his past self had had the sense to close the curtains before sunlight could permeate the shadowy space.

Bracing himself, he threw them open and let the sun filter in past tall city buildings. “Fuck,” he supplied, because, while beautiful, his eyes also burned from the change.

New York City was living and breathing beneath him, the shouts of vendors and patrons and angry drivers just reaching him through his thick glass windows. Percival rested his forehead against the cool glass and breathed for a few more seconds. With each passing moment, the smell of coffee strengthened from his kitchen. So did Tina’s frustrated mutterings and the banging of his cabinet doors. With a long-suffering sigh, he left his room and descended.

Tina wore a grey sweater and jeans that fit her tall, slim frame splendidly. Percival crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of his own kitchen, trying to determine how best to reveal himself without causing an all-out catastrophe as well as risking the livelihood of his appliances. But then Tina tripped on the corner of his counter, dropped an apple, and watched it roll all the way to his bare feet.

“You’re up,” she observed as she trailed after the fruit. She plucked it from the floor and blew on it a few times before biting in. “Did you freak out?”

Percival frowned, recalling dark days when he slept with a gun under his pillow, when even a small creak sent him into a frenzy. He’d stopped bringing men home after he’d almost choked one to death. “Nope,” he answered at last, a bit too casually. “The text helped,” he admitted, softer.

She smiled, that smile where her eyes crinkled and mouth made the happiest line Percival had ever seen. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Only you could be suspicious of happiness,” she grumbled. Yet she had turned away from him and retreated to the kitchen counter to jab at the coffee pot.

“Tina.” Her name was an exasperated breath.

She blushed. Gingerly, she slid her phone from her pocket and unlocked it. Then, she faced him again and sat it on the kitchen island, a text conversation alight on its screen. “Were you drunk last night?” she asked. No judgement, of course; she was only confirming a theory.

He ran his hands through his hair and grimaced at himself. “I _didn’t,_ ” he groaned, knowing full well that he did. Tina only nodded at the messages and took another bite of her apple.

 _Let’s break into a hospital,_ was the last message he’d sent. He didn’t have to look at the others to know why being a criminal was suddenly on his to-do list. “I can explain,” he began, his heart steady for the time being.

Tina waved him away. “There’s no need. I understand.”

Percival’s face must have resembled a large question mark, because she laughed. “We have no time to lose, and you said it yourself, files only go so far. I know you’ve got them memorized and we’re no further along. What we need is to talk to Credence. And you and I are the best people to do that.”

“I said all that?” he asked.            

“After a few glasses of wine, so you’d be horrified by your spelling,” she teased. “Why? Did you think you sent nudes?” Her eyes went mockingly wide. “You did, I just deleted them for later blackmail.”

“Only in your dreams.” He laughed with her but soon stopped, allowing their expressions and minds to sober. “Are we really doing this?”

“I think so.”

“Let me get dressed.”

“You want coffee?” she called after him.

“Always!”

Standing in his black trench coat, white silk scarf, and a navy suit that cut his frame most impressively, Special Agent Percival Graves wondered how he and his partner had managed to get themselves so thoroughly immersed in this case that they were disobeying direct orders from both their boss and one rather frightening nurse. When he looked at Tina, her wide eyes spoke of the same disbelief. “Do you have everything you need?” she inquired.

Percival held up a sleek briefcase full of files, pens, paper, and a voice recorder. “You?” In answer, Tina displayed a canvas bag full of clothes and other items she deemed necessary for anyone staying indefinitely in a hospital room. She was vibrating with nervous energy. Percival was on his second cup of coffee.

They walked right in past reception and into the elevators. Percival always found acting like no one could stop him, or that he had every right to be somewhere, got him there faster than causing trouble or waving around his badge like a moron. He wasn’t worried over getting to that room. Getting to Credence.

The agents stopped at the end of the hall. One lone cop stood guard outside Credence’s door. He seemed exhausted; rubbing his eyes, he looked around the ward and never registered the tall, dark stranger lurking at the corner, nor his short-haired and far less intimidating companion. A companion, it seemed, who had found some rebellion in her time off.

She started walking toward the police officer, careless. Percival could see through that façade—Tina was always anxious, and this would be no easy task for her—but the other man did not. He blinked at her. She talked. Percival was too damn preoccupied watching the doorway of Credence’s room to eavesdrop. Then, as soon as it had begun, it ended, and the cop was walking off with a smile and a tip of his hat.

Percival sauntered down the hall, wrapped Tina in a tight side-hug, and kissed the top of her head. “What would I do without your womanly charms?” he cooed jeeringly.

Tina rolled her eyes. “Please, you’re an _excellent_ flirt.”

He chuckled and gestured toward the door. “After you.” She could not see how much he had anticipated this reunion. Percival had always effortlessly masked his emotions, but Credence unbalanced him considerably. He had to be more careful.

Their presence went unnoticed at first. Credence’s eyes were closed, his body curled as much to one side as he could manage while handcuffed. He was likely accustomed by now to the sounds of nurses coming and going, so Percival and Tina were nothing new. Percival was pleased that he could find that small comfort as time progressed; the anxious, fearful boy he’d found under the stairs would not have been able to relax here. He smiled, and Tina caught it and mirrored him.

Although still on an IV drip, Credence no longer had transfusion bags pumping new blood into his body. His bandages had been replaced. Even as still as he was, he looked less like the corpse that he first had. Percival was glad of it.

“Do you think he’s asleep?” Tina asked, already moving closer to check. She dropped her bag on the same chair Percival had sat vigil in.

“Not anymore,” a weary voice answered. Percival did his best to keep an offhand pace as he finished hanging his coat and scarf and finally approached the bed. Standing at its end, he waited for Credence to raise his head.

“He jokes,” Tina gushed delightedly.

Credence shifted easily enough that the handcuffs also seemed to have become normal. Percival was shocked by what three days had given him, but he also suspected the pain meds were behind some of the tranquility. When their eyes met, Credence grinned, and Percival was struck speechless.

“Hello, Mr. Graves,” was all it took for three days’ worth of self-control to crumble. Percival wanted to laugh. All his life he’d been restrained, poised, and perfect, and the one person who was most restricted was chipping away at that carefully constructed exterior.

“Hello, Credence. You seem better.”

“I am now,” he said. But then he turned away to talk to Tina, and anything Percival would have taken from that vanished into the air between them. “I don’t know your name,” he admitted timidly. “I’m sorry.” Sitting with her bag, Tina covered his hand with her own and squeezed gently. It was so casual, so instinctual. Percival, who had never envied his partner before, envied her in that moment.

“We never really met, so that’s okay. I’m Agent Goldstein.”

“Mom always said I should shake a stranger’s hand, but…” Credence jostled his handcuffs and frowned apologetically at her.

“That’s alright.” Her smile was tight and didn’t quite reach her eyes. Percival knew she detested that security decision on Credence’s case even more than he did. She cleared her throat to draw all of their attention back to her. “I have some stuff for you. Do you want me to show you now or just leave it?”

“You’re not here to question me?” Credence asked before she could retrieve the bag. Percival stood still, knowing this was a test of his promise. It was a delicate game he was playing in that moment. He could not look at Tina to appeal to her, but her answer could strain the trusting relationship he was attempting to establish with Credence. His jaw jumped slightly as he considered that potential destruction.

“Question what kind of shoes you want, maybe,” Tina answered. She and Credence laughed together. Percival was fascinated by that laugh. It was no longer colored with too much sadness. There was more freedom to it.

Then Credence blushed. “I don’t know anything about shoes. I’ve… I’ve had the same pair almost my whole life.”

Tina squeezed his hand again. “There’s no pressure with us, okay? I want you to relax when you’re with us. We’ll just… pick the ones that fit the best, or the color that you like most.” She twisted to take the bag from behind her and reached inside.

From within the canvas bag she pulled a range of colors and sizes of Converse sneakers. Percival recognized the red pair from his own overnight Goldstein-care-package. He pointed at the assortment and mouthed, ‘Queenie?’. Tina nodded while he slipped his hand back into his pocket.

Credence had gone still, tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t deserve all this,” he whispered.

“Of course you do. What else will you wear when you walk out of this hospital? Those slippers?” Percival stepped sideways and then sat on the edge of Credence’s bed. Out of Credence’s view, Tina nudged Percival’s ankle encouragingly with her foot. He continued, “The first step to achieving normalcy is the masquerade of normalcy.”

Tina snorted at her partner. Credence, however, seemed moved by the words. He blinked away a few tears, allowed Tina to dab at his face with a tissue. “Normal,” he said on a breath. “That’s never been me.”

Percival ducked his head to hide the memories flashing behind his eyes. He knew all about the whispers and taunts, the rumors and jibes. He’d made himself the man that would make others cower before him precisely because he abhorred being so small in their eyes. Obviously Credence needed more guidance to achieve that.

Piling shoes on Credence’s bag, Tina _tsk_ ed and tapped his bedframe. “Who gets to decide what’s normal, anyway? What is it Lewis Carroll wrote?”

“ _We’re all mad here,_ ” Percival quoted effortlessly. A shiver ran up his spine as Credence met his eyes, all dark and desperate.

She laughed brightly. “That’s it! We all have our quirks, don’t we? What matters is that we don’t hide. I use mine to help people.”

Percival added, “You can get through this, and we’ll be with you as you do.”

The tears were surpassed by the smile on his face. Percival knew that look of joy, that feeling of disbelief, but also validation, when someone finally believed in him. Tina’s shining eyes betrayed her; Percival could tell she was thinking about the arrogant agent who’d inexplicably extended his hand to help her in the academy. They exchanged a heartfelt look before returning their attention to their witness.

“Thank you,” Credence gasped. He was barely holding himself together.

“Don’t thank me yet; we don’t know if any of these fit.” Tina’s diversion was impeccable. Credence looked to the shoes, and Percival watched him scan each pair with his eyes until he settled.

“I like the red.”

“Great!” Tina plucked them from the pile and threw them at Percival without warning.

Percival caught the shoes deftly and did not comment on his partner’s exaggeratedly cheery mood. She was still suspended, and Picquery was at her wits end with Graves’ temporary removal from the hospital, so the two agents were as close to miserable as they could afford to be. This was for Credence’s benefit. Percival intended to show the same courtesy. At least, that’s what he told himself as he stood and untucked the covers.

“May I?” he asked. He met Credence’s eyes as he leaned over the foot of the bed. Credence was holding his breath, his eyes wide with astonishment and trepidation. Percival wondered with the adrenaline and drugs gone how receptive he was to prolonged physical contact, and how much he was willing to trust him.

Tina stood and shoved the rest of the shoes into her chair. “I’m gonna go be helpful and get coffee.” She eyed Percival’s cup suspiciously. “Um, just for me. _You’re_ cut off. Credence, you want something? Water?”

Credence hummed something that sounded like a yes without looking away. Once Tina had left, he gave a jerky nod and wrestled his feet out from under the sheets. “I don’t have socks. Mine were. Well.” He shuddered, caught in foggy memories of blood and recollections of tattered hand-me-downs.

“I thought the hospital was supposed to provide you some,” Percival pondered with a frown. He sat, then started unlacing the converse between his knees.

“They think I’d need shoes, I think.” He rested his head on the pillow and stared wistfully out the window. “Not going anywhere.”

“Not if I can help it,” Percival argued. Triumphantly, he held up the unlaced shoes. “Now let me put these on or Agent Goldstein will have my head.”

“Why do you call her Agent?” Credence asked. He lifted his right foot and allowed Percival to slide on the shoe. It felt a little strange without a sock, but it was newer than anything he’d ever owned. He blinked back tears as he watched Agent Graves’ gentle hands move around him.

Percival swallowed down the anger he felt at the sight of all those scrapes and bruises. Credence’s feet were rough, calloused as if he had worn through every pair of shoes he’d ever worn. When Percival’s thumb brushed Credence’s bare skin, he clenched his jaw and thought of anything but the electric current running through his hand. “That’s her official title,” he answered finally. He took a steadying breath. “Other foot.”

Credence obliged, but was apparently unsatisfied with the answer. “No… Isn’t she… She’s your girlfriend.”

The thought was absurd. Percival finished sliding on the other shoe and looked back up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, she certainly isn’t.”

He chuckled, and Credence blushed. “S-sorry,” he stammered.

“There’s no reason to apologize, Credence.” And now that he thought about it—“Many people assume the same.”

“So you don’t—”

“That’s a little personal, Credence,” Percival says with finality. Although there was trust between them, and something a little extra that Percival wasn’t exactly ready to explore, he couldn’t just throw all of his training out of the window. There were lines he would not cross with a victim, especially one who was also a potential suspect.

Credence hung his head. The blush was brighter now, and the beeps on the monitor told Percival his heartrate was rising. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“It’s all I ever do.”

He said it so simply, like there was never a chance for an alternative. It was like a slap in the face for Percival. Of course Credence would be curious. Of course he would be unsure and questioning and ashamed. He had only ever known how to be afraid.

Percival abandoned the Converse, half tied and shockingly red against the clinical white sheets, to walk around the bed and sit beside Credence’s knees. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Credence inhaled sharply and tensed. But as Percival moved to stand, the handcuffs jangled as if he’d tried to reach out. “Don’t,” he managed, and Percival sunk back down. “I have to get used to people eventually.” The small, sad smile he produced hardly negated the fear in his eyes.

Tipping his head to better meet his eyes, Percival reached out and held Credence’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Okay?” he asked again, and felt a minuscule nod in answer. “Okay. Can you tell me something, Credence?”

Again, the minuscule nod. Tears spilled out past long lashes, and his eyes were wide with terror as if he already knew the question.

“Did your mother ever hurt you?”

Seconds felt like years as Percival waited. He knew the truth, of course, knew it by the old white scars and the fresher pink ones that preceded the Menace’s attack. He needed to hear him say it, though. His psych professors had always stressed the importance of self-acceptance and awareness. If Credence was ever going to talk about his childhood, he would need to confess this to himself.

“She—”

“Yes or no, Credence. We don’t have to go past that right now.”

Credence’s fingers wrapped around the guardrail and he could not meet Percival’s gaze. His breath and tears collided on Percival’s hand where he still held him. “ _Yes,_ ” he gritted out through clenched teeth. Then he collapsed forward as much as he could while still cuffed, and Percival’s arms immediately enclosed his frail body as it racked with sobs.

“I’m here,” Percival soothed. He held him tight, not moving a muscle, taking all of his weight. "You're okay; I’m here.”

He turned his head slightly to watch the doorway when he heard footsteps. Tina, holding two bottles of water and coffee, was leaning against the doorframe, her own eyes shining. She nodded at Percival and sat the drinks down on the closest surface before pulling her cell out and turning back into the hall.

Percival closed his eyes. Somewhere inside him, Credence Barebone held the missing parts of the Manhattan Menace case, he was certain of it. Percival focused on that, tried to fit the few pieces they had together into the million piece puzzle it had become. The FBI only had the corner pieces. This, however, could be the start of the center. And he wouldn’t stop until he finished it.


	7. The Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time. I realize my absence may have caused you to give up hope on this fic, though I hope that's untrue. I was in Spain for over a month and then had to go back to work right away, and now I'm also in the middle of moving. Quite some turmoil, you see. Hopefully my updates will become more regular after this one. Thank you to everyone who has read this fic, who is currently reading, and who will read it! Know that I won't stop writing until I've finished it. Comments and kudos are, as always, greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

“Agent Goldstein, I’m beginning to regret lifting your suspension,” Picquery said as she picked up the call. It was always instant with her, half a ring and then a clipped, “Special Agent Picquery” to greet her caller. “I told you we would speak tomorrow about my terms.”

Everything about this woman made Tina feel small, yet she so desperately wanted to impress her. Voice quavering, she interjected, “I don’t think you should send a psych eval team to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Oh?” The sound was dripping with disdain and disbelief.

Tina steeled herself. “I don’t think Credence is ready for that… I think you should give him more one-on-one with Percival.”

“Remind me who the Special Agent in Charge is, Agent Goldstein.”

She blushed furiously. “You, ma’am.”

There was a long moment that Tina prayed was being used by Picquery to consider Tina’s request. While she waited, Tina looked back to Credence’s room, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

It had been at least five minutes, but Credence was still relaxed in Percival’s arms. He was being exceptionally careful not to press against any bruises or cuts. Tina was surprised by her partner; attachments were not his strong suit, and his emotional distancing usually extended most harshly to civilians involved in his cases. The bureau sent Percival Graves to bust up suspects, not to console victims. She supposed it could be another angle, or he could genuinely care.

With the way Percival stroked back Credence’s hair and allowed him to cry on that expensive suit, she suspected the latter. It was surprising, but it made her smile.

“Why Graves?” Picquery asked after a long-suffering sigh. “We don’t send him to the victims.”

“I realize that’s for good reason,” Tina argued, “but Percival has gotten more from him than I think any team could accomplish in a week!”

Silence stretched between them. Tina felt the chill over the receiver before she realized her mistake. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded into her throat. When Picquery spoke, it was cold, merciless. “Am I correct in assuming you and Agent Graves are currently with Credence Barebone?”

Tina could not lie to a superior officer despite her utmost desire to do so in that instance. “We are,” she replied, and was proud of herself when her voice didn’t waver. “But—”

“Ms. Goldstein,” Picquery interrupted derisively. “This was a gross miscalculation on your part. I will deal with you later.” The screen flashed red. Tempted to curse, Tina locked her phone and instead settled on a sound somewhere between a shriek and a word.

From inside Credence’s room, Percival heard Tina make that sound she always made when she was trying not to swear. He gently removed himself from Credence, but Credence followed, bruised face pressed into the space between Percival’s shoulder and neck. “Don’t go,” he rasped, clinging to Percival with alarming strength. To Credence, Percival’s voice was better than any of the drugs pumped through his veins. Percival’s touch was better than any of the soft bandages wrapped around his skinny frame. Every bit of pain seemed to disappear in his arms.

Torn between two people who needed him, Percival was forced to pick his partner in that moment. “I have to,” he replied quietly. It struck him when he recognized the tone in his voice, that soothing empathy, because he had only ever used it for one other person in his life. Percival’s father had brought the war home with him; Credence Barebone carried his haunts around like chains.

“Please don’t leave me,” Credence begged. Percival was stuck not because of his hold—that body had less force than a spring breeze—but by the sheer desperation. It was its own pressure, clinging to Percival in the way Credence’s breath felt against his throat, in the way his arms held Credence so naturally, as if he’d been made to fit there.

“ _Please_ ,” Credence whispered, even as Percival insisted, “I have to go.” When he broke away, Credence followed as far as he could before the cuffs stopped him. Percival could not have looked back while he left to find Tina, or he might have stayed. He promised to return soon and then left, ignoring the sting in his chest.

Tina was bouncing from one foot to the other and pacing. Her bottom lip seemed perpetually stuck underneath her teeth, and she was staring at her phone as if she could wish away whatever call she had just made. “Tina…” Percival cautioned.

Her head snapped up and he saw the tears brimming in her eyes. “Oh, Percival, I messed up again.” She said it with such acceptance, but Percival could see the disappointment behind her wry smile.

“C’mere,” he said with his arm held out, and she shuffled over until her head rested on his shoulder. He hugged her fiercely, tightly, and very briefly before releasing her and holding her at arm’s length. “I always fix these things, don’t I?” Tina nodded dejectedly. Percival breathed, finding patience. “Tell me what happened, then.” Casually glanced over to check on Credence, he found the boy watching them raptly. He looked away hurriedly when their eyes met.

“Picquery knows we’re here.”

Percival’s stomach dropped. The threat of suspension hung near his head like a noose, and he had planned to give the hangman no reason to tighten it. Credence was just starting to open up to him. If he left now, the whole case could fall apart. _Credence_ could fall apart. Percival told himself the former would upset him most.

A hot rage boiled in his stomach. “How long ago did you tell her?”

Tina waved her arm helplessly. “I don’t know, ten minutes? Fifteen?”

Facing Tina once more, Percival cast about his gaze looking for the men he knew would be sent by Picquery to escort him and Tina off the premises. He had a fair idea of who _exactly_ they would be, and felt one deserved a swift punch in the jugular for opening his big mouth. Natters sauntered out of the elevator with a manic complacency in his eyes. When he saw Percival, he smiled wide. Percival sneered right back, amused that such a cretin could think he had any power over him.

“He can’t go in there with Credence,” Percival said. He glanced back inside the room. Credence had curled up on his side, knees and body turned in despite how his arms were forced to remain spread. He hadn’t finished tying the Converse, and the unfinished laces hung like a glaring reminder of an unfinished case. And Percival hated those handcuffs, and hated how they made the nurses whisper, but he knew after the attempt on Natters’ safety that they were necessary, at least to Picquery. Since he was a loyal agent, however, he would not contradict her.

“I think you should wear more dresses, Tina, show of them legs,” Natters jeered as soon as he was upon them. Smith guffawed and elbowed him encouragingly. One sharp look from Percival sobered him.

“You’re not welcome here,” Tina replied. Her cheeks were flushed, but her chin was high.

“ _Welcome_?” Natters leaned back to laugh, a full-bodied, fake sound that had some hospital staff staring. Smith chuckled uncomfortably beside him. “My boss sent me, Teenie.” Tina bristled; that nickname was Queenie’s for her and Queenie’s alone. “And you’re demoted. You’re just a fucking civilian,” he snarled. “What right do ya have to stop me?”

Tina took a deep breath. She was shaking. “I don’t.”

Natters laughed again and then turned his attention to Graves. “You sent your bitch to do your work?” he asked.

Percival would not be so easily baited. “You heard her,” he answered. “You are not welcome here, Agent Natters. Agent Goldstein and I are more than capable.” Percival grabbed Natters shirt collar and yanked him closer, smirking when the other man stumbled. “Test me and you will lose, Agent.” This was spoken quietly, with Smith straining to hear and Tina looking worriedly around the hall.

Blanching, Natters struggled against Percival’s hold. Percival’s eyes were hard and dark and dangerous, the threat in them anything but empty. “I’m going in there, Graves,” he growled. “Or are ya gonna stab me like your little friend tried?”

Percival shook him once before releasing him abruptly. Natters barely kept his balance while scrambling away. He straightened his jacket and tie, glowering, while Percival stood his ground. His posture dared Natters to test him, but his face warned that any move would only end in disaster for the other agent.

Smith put a steadying hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Special Agent Picquery gave us direct orders, before she even knew you were here, I swear,” he placated. “Today we’re supposed to set up a room if the suspect’s stable enough and get him a psych eval.”

“Because that worked so well last time,” Percival snapped. The effort it was taking to remain calm was staggering. “He had massive internal bleeding and multiple broken bones that haven’t healed. His hands were barely whole when I found him. Do you honestly believe five days in the hospital is all it takes for a body with that amount of damage to be stable? Christ, Smith, they still have him on a morphine drip. They still have nurses cleaning wounds by the hour.”

Smith shrugged. “As long as his head’s in the right place.”

“He needs more time,” Percival insisted. “ _I_ need more time. He trusts me, and he hates you, and he’s terrified of strangers.” He stepped closer, propelling the pair of imbeciles backwards. “I’m more motivated to solve this case than anyone else on the team; this is me doing my job well. So fuck off and stop fucking up my investigation.”

Natters opened his mouth to retort, but Smith held up his hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said. “Come on, man. Live to fight another day.”

“Picquery will hear about this,” Natters threatened. “If this case falls apart because you’re busy playing house, it’s on you.”

Percival watched them leave, simultaneously satisfied and troubled. He had been truthful; this was the right professional move, but something about it felt too emotional to fit the calculated, measured approach he usually took to his work. He met Tina’s anxious eyes. Then he turned on his heel to go back inside Credence’s room.

Grasping his shoulder, Tina stopped him a few feet from the door. It was closed, likely the work of a nurse who hasn’t wanted Credence to hear the FBI teams’ showdown. The anxiety had not left her eyes, nor had the shaking completely subsided. Tina had always been a rule-abiding girl, a people-pleaser and a woman who respected authority figures simply for their status. Graves was upset at having dragged her along his rule-bending path, though he also knew she made her own choices and would not have followed him if she had been completely opposed. She was loyal to her friends first.

“Are you alright?” he asked, drawing her into a sideways embrace.

She returned the hug and then stepped back. “Yeah… I just really want my job back.”

“It’s still there.”

“For now.” She sighed. “I’m gonna call Newt, maybe get some lunch. Do you want anything?” Her eyes sparkled. “Don’t say coffee; you have a serious problem.”

Percival clutched his heart as if wounded before assuring her he was fine. As she walked toward the cafeteria, he switched his attention back to Credence’s room. Leaving Natters’ suspicions to die in the hallway where they’d been spoken, he turned the knob.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence turned his head to the door as soon as Percival walked inside.

“I told you I’d come back,” Percival assured him as he slipped back around to the end of the bed where the Converse fit loosely on Credence’s feet. “I never finished this.”

Credence seemed relieved to not be pressed more about his mother. He watched Percival curiously, cautiously, like he was unaccustomed to any contact that didn’t end in pain. Once Percival had finished, he offered a small but genuine smile and stroked his thumb over Credence’s bare ankle. Credence flinched. “I’m sorry,” Percival said at once. “I should have asked first.” He had not touched any of the cuts or scars, but he had not been mindful of Credence’s trauma, and that was just as harmful.

Eventually, Credence exhaled and relaxed. “Was that the man I attacked?” he inquired.

Percival glanced up, surprised. “Yes.”

“I wish I could say sorry to him,” he whispered. “You were wrong when you said I wasn’t a monster.” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and he gritted his teeth. “Someone hurt me all my life, and I hurt someone else. I can barely remember it. But I remember her screaming. That means I did it, right, that I can just hurt someone like that?”

Percival stroked through his hair with his free hand. “Stabbing a stranger with a pen doesn’t mean you killed your family, Credence.” It was blunt, but it was the truth, and Percival was tired of accusations today. He sighed, sat beside Credence on the bed again. Reaching for Credence’s hand, he asked, “May I?” and intertwined their fingers once Credence had given a tearful but happy _yes._ Percival took extra caution in not aggravating the sensitive, healing skin there, but the bandages seemed to protect it enough. The doctors had done their best, and though there would be scars, Credence would have fully functional hands despite the damage.

“I missed you,” Credence blurted out. He blushed bright red and hung his head. “When you were gone for so long, I… I missed you.” He said this, but it sounded more to Percival like _I thought you had left me_.

Percival shifted to get more comfortable. “This case keeps me busy.”

“Have you found other suspects?”

Percival shook his head. “Credence…”

“Right. I-I’m sorry.”

Withdrawing his hand, Percival sighed. “I know why you keep asking. There’s no need to apologize; I simply _cannot_ share that information with you.”

“I’m sor—” Credence blushed again, inhaled slowly. “Okay,” he supplied instead after a long, unbearable interval. He gave a wry smile. “I guess the only think we can talk about is me?”

The agent smiled, a mirror. “You’ve caught me.” He ducked his head to bring Credence back to him, since Credence had looked down again, caught in the dark. “We will only go as far as _you_ want to, or as you can.” He replaced his hand on Credence’s.

“I don’t even know what helps.” Credence’s voice was barely a decibel above a whisper. His searching eyes were lost and even when Percival met his gaze.

“Anything. Everything, ideally.”

There was another deep breath, another, longer pause. Then, Credence pressed his forehead to Graves’ and rested it there. Graves was startled, and anxiety rose fast and constricting in his throat as if he’d swallowed down sea water while he contemplated the ethics of this action. He felt immoral as he stroked his thumb over Credence’s hand, urging an answer in a whisper far too intimate for a suspect in the case he was investigating. “Okay,” Credence finally agreed. “Everything.” Percival felt the breath from that word on his own lips.

The agent was perfectly still. He wasn’t sure if he should be holding Credence or letting him go; what sort of flashback could this cause, what kind of risk was he taking? Percival had no desire to endanger Credence, but he was wrestling with himself. The case needed to come first. Work had always been more important to him. He could not understand why Credence was leading him to question rules he had always lived by.

“It was a man,” Credence said. Tears rushed to his eyes before streaming down his face. He gasped as if he still saw this man in the room with him now. The handcuffs rattled against the bedframe as he pulled, so Percival pulled him to himself to stop it. Credence shook within his arms, racked with sobs and recollections. “He knocked on the door and Ma thought the kids had come early… She j-just let him in…”

“Good, Credence. Take your time.” Percival’s cold exterior was beginning to manifest, the one he used during interrogations. Efficient and self-serving, it was the persona that suited an FBI career admirably. It was also why they never sent witnesses to Graves unless they were meant to be cracked.

“H-he had a kn-knife, I think. His hand was bleeding.” Percival remembered the bloody handprint on the church sign out front. He nodded. Credence murmured, “He chased Ma up the stairs and I ran after them and—” A whimper followed Credence’s unfinished sentence. His eyes were tightly shut as he shook his head, seemingly unable to continue.

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

 “I don’t know, I…”

“Height, hair color, _something_.”

Rocking back and forth, Credence seemed scattered and absent. He would not look at Graves despite the man’s vice-like grip on his frail shoulders. “I’m not sure—”

Percival’s frustration peaked. “Credence!” he yelled.

When his name had been shouted, Credence’s terrified, red-rimmed eyes flew open. There was a savageness in the way he twisted his mouth then, a cruelty in the way he regarded Percival. “You’re just like the rest of them,” he accused. He shoved Percival away angrily. “You said you didn’t just want my memories! You lied to me!” His voice cracked with the rising sounds.

Percival reached out and brought Credence back to him. He struggled for a moment before Graves took his face in his hands and wiped all those righteous tears away. “You’re wrong,” he soothed. He wanted to laugh, but did not. “I’m sorry for pushing you; I had no right. Yet you are still wrong.” Percival leaned back to look at Credence, truly look at him, to study those high cheekbones and long lashes, the delicate dark hair and porcelain pale skin. “Your memories help me save you, and in the end, that is all I want.”

Credence, confounded, could only blink and stare. Even when he finally relaxed his body to contour it to the agent’s, he still could not speak. And Percival allowed him that. He allowed the silence as Credence drifted off to an exhausted sleep, fitted into every angle his body offered.

Eventually, Percival left. His legs were cramped from sitting, his back aching from bending his spine to support Credence. Credence, with his bandages and tears, who Percival had laid down as gently as he could on the hospital bed, was a silent sleeper now. Though nightmares plagued him, they tore his body inside and gave him no release. There was no way to awaken from a bad dream if the dream kept you from screaming.

His phone had buzzed too many times to keep ignoring it. There were dozens of text messages from Tina, the most recent of which read, _Ur probably w Credence so I know u won’t read these._ Percival chuckled at her insight.

There were three calls from Special Agent in Charge Seraphina Picquery, no voicemails. That was troubling. He tapped the small phone icon next to her contact and waited patiently as the phone rang.

“Special Agent Picquery.”

“Did you need me?” he asked.

Picquery sighed. Percival could envision her pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand and tapping her pen against her desk with the other. “Credence Barebone’s doctor told me he can be discharged tonight.”

Graves scowled. His heart started with indignation; the fear would come later. “His bones—”

“Aren’t yet healed, I’m aware. Don’t you recall what it’s like to have broken ribs?”

“It’s an exercise in patience,” he recited. An old academy professor had been quite fond of that expression, and of students learning from experience. He cursed. Now he would look like a liar to Natters, a sap to Smith.

“Exactly. Now, I have a small unit tasked with collecting him after his discharge. From there he will be transferred to a holding facility and we will have the right people handling the interrogation.”

There was the fear. Cold like a bucket of ice, it flooded his veins in a rush. “No, no. He needs _me_ , not some doctor with a superiority complex and a fancy diagnosis that goes along with pills.” He sounded too desperate. He inhaled, exhaled. “He’ll be useless all drugged up.”

“Credence Barebone is currently on a morphine drip. Do you honestly believe medication designed to balance chemicals in his brain will be more deleterious than that?”

Percival pictured himself throwing his cell phone across the room. Satisfied with the image, he decided not to recreate it in reality. Instead, he answered calmly and truthfully, “In my professional opinion, ma’am, I think _I_ am our best option.”

When Picquery laughed, it was a beautiful sound, fit for a beautiful woman, but it always had something scathing in it. Percival had not often been on the receiving end of it. It unnerved him slightly to be its cause now. “What’s your plan, then, Graves? Is he going to stay in your penthouse, locked up in luxury?”

Percival Graves was not a rash man. He was a man who thought, who tired others with his patience but cared little for their opinions. His judgement was sound, his advice greatly revered, his decisions careful and deliberate.

So Percival said, rashly, with no care or deliberation whatsoever, “Yes, he will.”

Picquery did not wear shock well. It was an ill-fitting suit, wrinkled at the eyebrows and rough on the tongue. He could imagine the acidic words stuck in her throat and the way her whole body froze. She was not shocked often; many mistook her disappointment for shock and assumed the marble eyes with which she regarded them were the most emotional response she could muster in any surprising moment. But no, Percival had seen her truly shocked. He’d been the cause of it twice in the time he knew her—now thrice, if he was counting. Which, he decided as a complacent grin overtook his lips, he was.

“Special Agent Picquery, are you still there?” Percival asked, because he knew damn well she was. He held his arrogance at bay when he could, but sometimes he needed to push. He needed to win this fight.

“That,” she answered finally, “is an _abysmal_ suggestion.”

“I disagree. May I persuade you to join my side?”

“There is no argument here, and certainly no negotiation, Graves. My decision is final and my judgement is sound. I doubt there is anything you can say to convince me otherwise.”

Waves of anger thudded at the dam he had constructed to hold them down. His words were more caustic than intended. “Even if I say that I almost got a description of the perp today?” he practically sneered. “Even if I tell you that Credence Barebone trusts me with his life, that he’s willing to share his secrets with only me? What then, Seraphina? Have I been persuasive enough?”

As the silence stretched on, his confidence only bolstered. In most agents it would have diminished, but Percival knew Picquery better than they did. Silence meant deliberation. Silence meant she _was_ open to suggestion, no matter how much she denied it. Hope lived in her silences like the quiet point just before the sun breaks on the horizon.

And her light was dazzling as she exhaled and said, “Fine.”


	8. The Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right? Trust me, my lovely, loyal readers, this fic will NEVER be abandoned. For a variety of reasons, it's just difficult to write sometimes, so it will be a slow process. I adore everyone who has stuck around despite the irregular updates and delay in replying to comments (I see and treasure each word).
> 
> All my love,  
> 13thDoctor

As a rule, the Graves family was not one to celebrate. Holidays were solemn events of thankfulness or remembrance. A military family, the Graves were also almost always too busy to revel in much of anything. And Percival’s father treated every birthday as a learning opportunity, as a time to become a man, to reach adulthood and become a hard soldier to follow in dad’s footsteps. As it turns out, dad was exactly the kind of man that inspired his son to disappoint him with a penchant for literature, fine fashion, and handsome boys.

So Percival Graves did not celebrate this victory. His heart may have lifted and the tight, uncomfortable knot in his gut may have unraveled, but there was no celebration. There was a curt ‘thank you,’ a quick arrangement to have most of the paperwork forwarded to the Manhattan office so they could leave soon, and a smooth replacement of a mobile phone into expensive navy trouser pockets.

And that was it.

Percival rubbed at his eyes. Remembering how he had left Credence before taking Picquery’s call, he figured he could use some sleep as well. That or a long run. But since both were impossible in a tight-fitting suit and a truncated time frame, he got to work instead.

He stepped over to the nurse’s station. “I need Credence Barebone’s release documents,” he told her. There was no charm, only cool professionalism and eyes that said _now._ The nurse nodded. When he turned away to pull his phone back out, he could feel her eyes on him. It was flattering, of course, but he did not grace her with more acknowledgment than a grateful nod.

The name he scrolled to was Donovan Smith. He answered on ring two, just like the good, trained dog he was. “Smith here,” came the nasally greeting.

“Credence is leaving with me tonight. Did you leave a key to his handcuffs with the officers on his rotation?”

“Yep,” Smith replied. The _e_ vowel was unpleasant in his dialect. Percival wrinkled his nose. “Hope it all works out for ya, Boss Man,” he said. He sounded sincere, at least, when he promised to help with the case more if Percival wanted him. Percival refused it frigidly. Then he hung up.

Officer Gibes was a portly man in his late forties with balding hair and a look of utter boredom. Percival resisted scowling as he neared him—a precious witness such as Credence should have been afforded a more worthy guard—and instead kept his mouth in a straight line. “The keys,” he said, and held out his hand. Gibes fumbled with the tiny ring but eventually dropped them into Graves’ waiting palm. “Thank you,” the agent offered, because he was first and foremost a gentleman.

The keys seemed to burn through Percival’s hand as he walked back to Credence’s room. A great weight melted off his shoulders as he ran the metal around his fingers; he was careful not to jingle the keys too loudly once he had stepped inside room 213. There was no need, though—Credence’s sleep was deep, owing to painkillers and exhaustion, but also to his newfound ability to relax. Percival couldn’t even imagine the comfort he might be able to feel away from all those machines and sterile linens, in someplace with a familiar face guarding him, a place high enough off the ground that the busy sounds of the city would no longer burden his sleep.

Percival took his regular seat. As minutes became hours, he grew restless, pacing whenever his legs stiffened. He asked questions whenever nurses came in. Their answers were all similar: Credence’s vitals were stronger, his bones had set correctly, his hands would hurt and scar but still be usable. Percival left to get coffee while a nurse changed Credence’s hospital gown into donated clothes for patient’s lacking any; now he wore black sweatpants and a grey t-shirt and those shining red Converse. Eventually a different nurse pushed a wheelchair into the room and explained that Credence would need to leave in it.

Once she left, a quiet voice asked, “Where am I going?”

Having been leaning against the door, Percival smiled and strode over to Credence’s bedside. “If you’re comfortable with the arrangement, I have requested that the bureau allow you to stay in my home until…” He trailed off, suddenly unsure. Would Picquery tolerate the arrangement until the investigation was complete, or until she found enough evidence to persecute Credence as she wanted to? “Until you can find a place of your own.” Credence was an adult, after all. The lie felt reasonable enough to be truthful.

Credence’s eyes were wide and shining. “I’m staying… with you.” The last part of his sentence released on a breath. In his eyes was an amalgamation of hope and disbelief and wonder that made Percival’s pulse pound.

Although it hadn’t been a question, he took the opportunity to sit, take Credence’s hand, and say, with no small amount of wonder himself, “You are.” Retrieving the handcuff keys from his pocket, Percival weighed them in his hand while regarding Credence. The small smile he had worn moments before was cast off in favor of a hard, conflicted gaze. “I am doing this because I trust you,” he murmured, “and because I don’t believe you’re a killer.” _Please do not prove me wrong,_ his eyes pleaded. Credence understood this, and nodded.

Slowly, Percival’s fingers slipped over Credence’s thin wrists. He pressed carefully over his bruises, using his free hand to insert the key and turn. The cuffs unlocked with a sharp _click._ Percival ran his fingers through his hair and then set about unlocking the other. When they released, the padded restraints fell away, as well, leaving only the layers of white bandages that wrapped over almost equally white skin. Percival’s breath caught as he thought of the scars forming beneath those bandages, and his blood rushed with rage.

Credence lifted his hands and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. Though his eyes were wide open, Percival’s were scrunched shut in an effort to rid himself of the memory of all the blood that had flowed from those veins, how deep the gashes had gone, how useless those hands had been. The image had lasted only a second, but it had been enough for Credence to notice. He reached forward and tentatively held his hand near Percival’s.

“I’m okay,” he murmured.

He wasn’t really, Percival thought, with the dark rings beneath his eyes, his black hair knotted and disheveled, and his collarbone jutting out from beneath his hospital gown. But he offered a small smile nonetheless. Eyes soft and kind, he took Credence’s hand. It was warm now, from use. Their hands fit perfectly together, palm to palm, lying flat on the sheets. “Do you feel ready to leave today?” Percival asked.

“Depends.”

Percival tilted his head and smiled. “Depends?” he repeated.

“On if you’re ready to take me.”

Something about the way he said it sent shivers down Percival’s spine. He shifted in his chair, leaning back before he could do anything he would later regret. He remembered years of caring for his father. Not wishing for that pain to show in his eyes, he hid it with another brilliant smile and said, “Of course I am.”

Most of Credence’s anxiety melted away with that answer. Finally lying back in bed, his breathing slowed and his body relaxed. He smiled at his free hands and let them fold over his chest. Watching him melt into the sheets, Percival could hardly believe Credence was a primary suspect for multiple homicides. In that moment, he seemed incapable of anything more than weakly waving his converse-clad feet in the air and whispering, “Hey, Mr. Graves.”

“Yes, Credence?” His voice was just as quiet.

“Can I…” Credence gulped, fighting back tears. “Can I ever go home?”

Percival grimaced. He couldn’t possibly answer. Credence’s home was a crime scene, taped off and still being combed by forensic specialists and detectives. It was a place of corrosive memories, of blood and death. But he understood. Often he desired to return to his father’s last home, or to his grave, to seek reconciliation with the dead man. He’d never found it.

“If you want to,” he answered honestly. “Though you’ll have to wait until the FBI clears your visit.” Percival met Credence’s gaze. He considered his words for a long time before admitting, “I don’t want you going back there.”

There was a spark of anger within Credence’s eyes. “Why not?” He sat up again. The frequent movement made him wince, and he clutched at his unhealed ribs.

The first answer that came to mind was, _Because Picquery will think the killer’s returned to the scene._ Censoring himself, Percival instead said, “Because _that_ is not something I think you are ready to do.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was halfway there, and it was sufficient.

Credence’s anger retreated. Hard eyes turned downcast, and his fingers picked at his shoelaces. His legs he had drawn up to his chest, which made him smaller, but also longer. Percival realized that if Credence were to stand up, he would the taller of the two of them. Caught by the image of Credence looking down at him, Percival cleared his throat and leaned away again. Regret surged through him—only for an instant, like accidentally touching a hot stove—when he realized how hard he’d need to work to guard these thoughts with Credence living with him. It was unprofessional, inappropriate.

There was silence between them while Credence dozed some more and Percival packed up their scant belongings. The nurses helped Credence into his wheelchair.

“I don’t need this.”

A lie, borne of years of hiding pain from others. Percival said, “That is not up to me.”

Credence deflated and conceded as usual. Percival wondered if it would be better for him to put up a bigger fight, to really refuse something. Though he didn’t want to be the one to test that scenario.

Percival bent down and whispered, like the conspirator he was, “You can leave it when we get to my car.” Credence’s smile was all the evidence Percival needed to know he made the correct call.

They left the hospital with no amount of ease. All of the assigned officers gave Credence looks anywhere between pity, distrust, and horror. Percival moved one hand to Credence’s shoulder and squeezed. Credence trailed his fingers down Percival’s knuckles. His ribs seemed to shudder with the pleasant shock of it. Frowning, Percival pulled his hand away. He was so far out of line he could feel Picquery’s heel as she kicked him back into place. Her power, though, was eclipsed by Credence’s disbelieving and innocent and wholly shocked face when they reached the Lamborghini.

“ _This_ is your car?”

“I cannot fit a wheelchair in that, you’re absolutely correct,” Percival countered, and then walked away to unlock and start the car before he could wink. The voice in his head telling him to _be careful_ sounded an awful lot like Tina Goldstein.

Credence was smiling when Percival finally schooled his features into something more neutral and returned to his side. “I think this is the most expensive thing I’ve ever seen.”

Percival huffed. “I’ll take you to Times Square sometime.” He saw the sadness creep into Credence’s eyes, and that doubt that these happier times would last, so he took Credence’s face between his hands and whispered, “Do you trust me?”

Credence licked his lips, bit the bottom one. “Of course.”

“Good.” He straightened up and clenched his fists at his sides. Looking at the _Veneno,_ he cocked his head and then asked, “Is it alright if I carry you? I don’t think you should climb into it. Your hands…”

“You already carried me.”

Percival turned sharply. “You remember that?”

He curled his shoulders in, unnerved by the scrutiny. “Sounds and feelings only, really.” His voice quieted and he blushed. “How could I ever forget you?”

The car doors were open, and the engine was running, but the two men couldn’t move. Percival eventually breached the space between them to crouch at Credence’s eye level. “Can I move you now?” Ignoring Credence’s earlier question seemed the only possible plan of action at the moment.

Credence nodded slowly. Percival wondered if he trusted himself to speak again, and read in the tension of his body as he was lifted that he did not. The lift itself Percival made as clinical as possible, and he was overly cautious of his hand placement. Despite his caution, his whole body thrummed as Credence turned his head into Percival’s shoulder, his nose pressing into the agent’s collarbone. Percival’s heart slammed fitfully against his ribcage. When he buckled Credence into the passenger seat, their faces were close enough that he Credence’s breath whispered over his cheek.

Percival extracted himself from the passenger side with perfect, poised grace. He shut the door. Taking gulping breaths on his way to the driver’s side, he berated himself, keeping himself from the car long enough to update Tina with a quick text.

With Credence in the car, Percival drove the speed limit and weaved far less. It frustrated him to a startling degree. Credence’s smile, though, whenever he bit back a curse at a reckless cab driver, calmed those fiery nerves.

He cut the engine when they reached the building garage. Credence peered into the darkness, at the rows and rows of million-dollar vehicles, gaping. “Are you…”

“Rich? Yes, though it’s a long, dull, and irrelevant story.” Only the first and last adjectives in that statement were true. Percival frowned out his window, discomfited by how little guilt he felt telling these small lies to Credence. He faced him. “Perhaps I’ll tell you, someday.” Another promise for the future. Percival saw the doubt in Credence’s eyes every time.

Silence filled the small space inside the Lamborghini until it was stifling. Credence broke it, murmuring, “I think I can walk.”

“Not up all those stairs,” Percival grunted. He hurried around to the passenger door, opened it like Credence was his prom date. He cringed, small enough that Credence didn’t notice. “There’s an elevator. Can you make it there?”

Credence looked down at his bandaged hands, then at his weakened legs. “Yeah.”

Unconvinced, Percival reached for him, but Credence tensed.

“Let me try, please.”

Swallowing a sting of rejection, Percival nodded. He stepped away, though remained close in case Credence fell.

Credence breathed once, deeply, before flailing one of his legs out of the door as if a slower pace might make the move impossible. Weeks in a hospital bed had made his legs unaccustomed to walking, even to standing. He swung the other foot out. Percival gave up and rushed forward to help Credence with the rest, afraid he would try to grip the doors with his unhealed hands and yank himself out of the car.

Gasping, Credence collapsed into his chest. Percival felt his smile against his jaw. They clung to each other for a few more moments until Percival stepped back, holding Credence at arm’s length. “Ready?”

Percival wrapped his arm around Credence’s waist. Credence slung his arm over Percival’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Credence answered.

Thankfully, no other tenants were around to witness Percival half-drag Credence to the elevator, inside of which they both slumped against the wall. Percival blushed, considering their compromising position from an outsider’s perspective: side-by-side, yet with Credence’s full weight supported by Percival, with their bodies twined, a hand on the other man, a foot twisted past the other’s ankle. Percival’s skin burned beneath his suit wherever Credence touched him.

The elevator bell sounded. He pulled his apartment keys from his pocket as the doors slid open. Then, he and Credence took their final steps to his apartment, which he unlocked deftly while Credence leaned against the doorframe.

He went about flicking on various lights while Credence shuffled inside. He stood with his arms hugging his own frail body, blush painting his high cheekbones a humiliated shade of red.

“Hey,” Percival soothed, and, taking Credence’s hand, led him slowly to the couch, which they eased into together. “I don’t have a guest room,” Percival apologized, “and I would offer you the master if it weren’t upstairs. I can have another bed brought in, of course, and clear some of this away so you have privacy. This will have to do for now.”

Without leaving time for a refusal, he pushed on, guiding Credence up the stairs. The curtains were drawn so sunshine streamed inside. On the bed Percival had placed various clothing items, all still bearing tags, in Credence’s current size as well as what he assumed would be Credence’s size once he gained a proper amount of weight back. Tina had procured most of it along with her sister Queenie, who claimed more connection with ‘the youth.’ Percival shook away that memory. He walked to his bed, plucked a long-sleeved tee from the neatly folded pile, and then presented it to Credence.

Credence’s shoulders curled in and he hung his head. His shoulders shook as silent tears spilled down his face and onto his grimy hospital hand-me-downs. Unfamiliar, uncomforting. Crumpling and discarding the tee, Percival cursed himself for being so foolish, and placed his hands on either side of Credence’s neck as he twisted to embrace him.

“It’s too much,” Credence said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

As he held him, Percival belatedly realized that Credence did not mean he was overwhelmed—though there was a part of him that was, certainly—but rather that what he had been offered was far more than he had ever owned. Credence had shared a room with his mother. He’d been beaten, survived on scraps, likely raised on the foundation of never being worthy. And Percival had essentially just _agreed_ with that.

“Fuck, Credence, I meant—” He groaned and tore his hands away to scrub them over his face. “I meant I thought this was too much, too fast, not that you…” He cleared his throat. “Credence. Look at me.” He did. Percival continued, “You deserve something good. If you’ll let me, I want to give that to you.”

Percival could taste his heart in his throat when Credence smiled, ever so slightly, just a quirk of his lips that sent the darkness and sadness running. For a fleeting moment, Percival thought how, if they were different men, he might kiss that mouth into another, brighter smile.

He tore himself away from Credence and the bed. “You’ll need food,” he declared too loudly. He ran his hands through his hair and then tucked it back into place before swinging open the closet door to gather his own things. “And a phone, bedding…” Speaking with his head stuck in some drawers, he finished, “I’ll have to go out tomorrow. Will you be alright here alone?” Finally he could address Credence again, those damned thoughts shoved to the farthest corners of his mind.

He had followed him into the closet. Eyes alight with wonder, he was staring at the walk-in with a kind of perplexed awe as if he’d never imagined a closet could look like that. “I…” Credence started, breathing deeply. His face bore the reddish lines of dried tears. “Yeah. I spent a lot of time on my own before…”

With that, Credence stretched out on the oversized mattress. It was much more appropriate for his height than the hospital bed. He yawned. Lying out over all the new clothes and all their dark hues, he resembled some ill-fated Shakespearean prince. Percival turned away.

“Mr. Graves?”

“Percival,” he corrected sternly. Afraid his eyes would betray him, he faced his door.

“Will you stay with me?”

Percival did turn, then. He walked back to the bed and sat, immediately reaching out to stroke Credence’s hair, holding one strand between his thumb and forefinger where it fell unevenly on his cheeks. Credence turned instinctually into the touch. Although his eyes were closed, Percival could see the tension in the boy’s shoulders as he pursued an answer. Percival waited until that tension relaxed. Credence had fallen asleep.

“Ask me again tomorrow.” His hand retreated before it could do any further damage to his self-discipline.

Tomorrow was Monday. Percival would need to go into the office; he would need to face Picquery and Smith and Natters.

 _Will I see you tomorrow?_ He sent the text to Tina and then tapped his phone back to black. As an afterthought, he opened it again and wrote, _Do I have enough wine left?_ After working up their nerves for their hospital stunt, he hadn’t restocked.

 _Yes_ , came the immediate reply to his first question. He went downstairs and changed into his pajamas, and was almost on the couch, when his phone buzzed again.

 _Depends on what you’re trying to drown it with_.

He deleted the message and found the bottle.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is interested, I mostly wrote to a specific collection of songs, which I'll be releasing as a playlist near the completion of the fic, since the last few could be spoiler-y. Plus, it'll hurt more once you've read the whole story.


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